K- 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE 


LIGHT-BEARER 


OF 


LIBERTY. 


BY 


J.  W.  SCHOLL. 


What  the  brain  has  thought,  and  the  hands  have 

wrought, 

And  the  soul  has  dreamed  could  be, 
Is  the  only  worth  in  the  whole  wide  earth, 
And  the  measure  of  life,  for  me  ! 

—  The  Author. 


BOSTON  : 

EASTERN    PUBLISHING    COMPANY, 
6l    COURT   STREET. 


Copyrighted  1899, 

By 
J.  W.  SCROLL. 


All  Rights  Reserved. 


PREFACE. 

AUTHOR'S  ANNOUNCEMENT. 

THE  LIGHT-BEARER  OF    LIBERTY i 

THE  SPECTRAL  VISITANT 45 

JESUS  OF  NAZARETH 79 

MY  CREED -99 

MY  DUST 113 

FRAGMENT  FROM  UUPUBLISHED  MASQUE.  .    .    .117 

A  CORDON  OF  SONNETS. 

CHRISTUS '.    .  123 

TRUTH,   THE   REDEMPTOR 124 

FAITH 125 

ATONEMENT 126 

RESURRECTION .    .  127 

THE  EVERLASTING  LIFE 128 

TRANSFIGURATION 129 

IMMORTALITY 130 

CALVARY 131 

EKKLESIA 132 

GETHSEMANE 133 

OLIVET 134 

THE  PARAKLETE 135 

HYPATIA 136 

To  A  SERPENT 137 

•  •  • 

THE  BIRTH  OF  A  GOD 139 

AGNOSTICISM 140 

THOUGHTS 143 

MY  Pious  COMFORTERS ....  145 


762987 


. .  preface . . 


The  human  heart  and  the  human  brain 

Are  guides  and  sanctions  enough  for  me, 

For  your  blessed  bibles  and  creeds  are  vain, 
To  the  man  that  pants  for  liberty. 

f  V 


HE  raison  d'etre  of  this  little 
volume  is  found  in  the  dic 
tum  of  the  Rev.  Homer 
Wilber ;  "  Men  do  not 
make  poetry,  it  is  made 
OUt  of  them"  It  IS  the 

incarnation  of  the  rare 
moments  in  the  poet's  life,  when  the  mind  is 
at  white  heat  and  his  heart  beats  like  a  trip 
hammer.  There  is  something  inevitable 
about  it. 

The  several  poems,  contained  herein, 
will,  the  author  trusts,  speak  for  themselves. 
Some  will  make  enemies  ;  some,  friends. 
Friends  among  those  who  find  that  the  rags 
and  patches  of  a  theological  system,  though 


PREFACE. 


once  considered  royal  purple  woven  in  with 
threads  of  gold,  leave  them  naked  in  the  face 
of  the  universe,  and  who  are  striving  to  weave 
themselves  a  new  garment  whole  and  with 
out  a  seam.  Enemies  among  those  conserva 
tives,  who  constantly  witness  their  own  de 
feat  but  anathematize  the  victors  ;  who  cling 
to  the  old  sinking, barnacle-covered  ship  when 
all  their  fellow-passengers  have  taken  to  the 
life-boats  ;  who  would  die  with  the  "faith  of  the 
fathers"  rather  than  acknowledge  that  a  new 
world  of  thought  has  arisen,  with  a  new  faith 
that  leaves  the  greater  mysteries  as  myster 
ies  still,  but  gives  full  leash  to  reason. 

It  is  not  too  much  to  hold,  that  any 
man  who  has  kept  abreast  of  Truth  ;  who  has 
in  his  mental  possession  the  chief  facts  of 
biblical  criticism,  of  archaeology,  of  history 
and  especially  the  history  of  thought-systems, 
of  astronomy,  geology  and  psychology  ;  who 
has  not  stultified  his  mind  by  long  indulgence 
of  prejudices,  must  assent  to  the  following 
propositions  : 

(i)  That  the  Bible  is  not  a  single  book, 
but  a  Literature,  containing  many  myths 
and  legends  and  crude  early  views  of  the 
world,  that  it  is  not  entirely  consistent 
throughout,  nor  chronologically  arranged, 
and  that  it  is  to  be  studied  by  the 


PREFACE. 


same  methods  and  judged  by  the  same 
standards  which  are  applied  to  all  other 
ancient  literary  remains. 

(2)  That  the  two-fold  story  of  the  crea 
tion  in  Genesis  is  inconsistent  in  itself, 
and  cannot  in  either  form  be  harmonized 
with  the  facts  of  geology  and  must  be 
considered    a    myth    incorporated    into 
Hebrew   tradition    from    extra-Hebrew 
sources  still  older. 

(3)  That  the  story  of  Adam  and  Eve 
and  the  Fall  is  simply  a  myth. 

(4)  That  man  has  been  proven  to  have 
existed  on  the  earth,  in  Egypt,  in  France, 
in  Denmark,  in  England,  in  Switzerland, 
and   in    America,  for  long  ages  before 
the  biblical  date  of  the  creation  of  Adam 
and  Eve. 

(5)  That  the  Deluge  of  Noah  is  a  myth, 
and  the  preservation  of  all  species    of 
animals  in  the  ark  an  impossibility. 

(6)  That     the    rainbow    has     existed 
wherever  sunlight  fell  on  falling  rain  and 
has  refracted  into  a  human  eye,  and  that 
its  first  appearance  at  the  subsidence  of 
the  Deluge  is  mythical. 

in 


PREFACE. 


(7)  That  the  story  of  the  confusion  of 
tongues  at  Babel  is   mythical,    and  con 
trary  to  all  known  facts  of  philology. 

(8)  That  Satan  has  no  real  existence. 

(9)  That  there  is  no  real  hell  of  fire 
and  brimstone. 

(10)  That  there  is  no  unimpeachable 
evidence  of  the  existence  of  angelic 
orders  of  cherubim  and  seraphim  and 
the  lesser  servants  of  Jehovah,  but  that 
these  were  the  necessary  complements 
of  a  rude  anthropomorphic  god,  who 
could  not  be  everywhere  at  all  times. 

(n)  That  "witch-craft"  and  "demoniac 
possession"  are  and  always  have  been 
delusions  or  misnomers  of  diseased  con 
ditions. 

(12)  That    drought,   pestilence,  storms, 
earthquakes,  and  volcanic  eruptions,  are 
never    "divine    visitations"    or  "satanic 
machinations",  but  always   natural  phe 
nomena. 

(13)  That    prophecy  was  never   specif 
ically  predictive. 

(14)  That  no  part  of  the  Bible  claims 
for  itself  divine  inspiration  or  inerrancy. 

IV 


PREFACE. 


(15)  That   no  miracles  now  take  place, 
(using  miracle  in  its  accepted  sense  of  a 
temporary  annulment,  change  or  rever 
sal  of  the  ordinary  processes  of  nature.) 

(16)  That  the  evidence    of  miracles  in 
the    past,    (such    as    raising    the    dead, 
turning  the  shadow    back    on   the  dial- 
plate,  making  a  metallic  axe  swim,  feed 
ing   the    multitude   on   the   loaves    and 
fishes,  turning  water  into  wine,  etc.)    is 
not  sufficient  to  be  convincing. 

(17)  That    there  is   no  evidence  for  the 
efficacy  of  prayer  in  changing  the  course 
of  nature,  except  in  a  limited  perfectly 
natural  way  by  its  effect  upon  the  per 
son  praying  and  upon  the  hearers,  and 
this  ought  not  be  counted  an  exception. 

(18)  That  the  idea   of    God  is  a  natural 
human    conception,    and    as    men   have 
become    better,    their    notions    of    God 
have  become  better. 

(19)  That    the   human  race  as  a  whole 
has  steadily  risen,  and  that  any  people's 
religion  is  a  human  product,  largely  an 
unconscious  growth,    that  measures  its 
elevation,  and  is  never  a  revelation  from 
without. 


PREFACE. 


(20)  That  the  whole  Universe  was  not 
originated  and  fitted  up  especially  for 
the  use  and  delight  of  man. 

It  is  possible  to  hold  these  views,  and 
yet  be  a  factor  in  the  best  social,  civil,  eth 
ical  and  religious  life  possible  among  men. 
Not  one  of  the  views  negatived  in  these 
propositions  is  worth  a  fig  to  humanity,  but 
the  belief  of  all  or  most  of  them  would  make 
a  mad-house  of  the  human  brain,  and  fill  life 
with  delirium.  The  moral  health  of  man 
kind  demands  a  clearing  of  the  atmosphere, 
even  though  a  storm  may  be  the  only  means 
of  clearing  it. 

The  author  has  not  been  betrayed  into 
wholesale  libel  of  humanity.  He  leaves  that 
to  the  Calvinist.  He  believes  that  men  are 
generally  honest,  that  their  notions  are  wont 
to  be  honest,  even  when  most  absurdly 
untrue.  They  are  to  be  pitied  and  helped 
to  a  better  thought,  not  berated  as  fools  and 
hypocrites.  They  need  culture,  but  culture 
requires  complete  destruction  of  the  untrue, 
and  gives  a  negative  cast  to  the  labors  of 
almost  all  liberals.  Every  move  forward 
involves  iconoclasm.  But  we  are  constantly 
confronted  with  the  question,  "What  do  you 
give  us  in  place  of  what  you  take  away  ?" 
We  give  but  little,  and  are  likely  to  give  but 

VI 


PREFACE. 


little  more.  You  have  enough,  good  brother 
man,  to  guide  you  through  all  the  lives  you 
will  ever  have  to  live,  if  only  you  can  be 
unfettered.  You  need  nothing  given  you. 
You  need  rather  have  much  taken  away, 
much  that  encumbers  you.  You  are  a  living 
thing,  a  bundle  of  instincts  adapted  more  or 
less  nearly  to  your  environment  by  the  long 
inheritance  of  the  ages.  These  inborn  in 
stincts,  guided  by  enlightened  reason,  are  a 
thousandfold  better  guide  to  the  high  con 
duct  of  your  life  than  all  the  parchments  and 
papyri  of  the  past. 

The  constructive  or  affirmative  side  of 
liberal  thought  can  not  be  so  distinctly 
religious,  as  that  term  is  commonly  under 
stood,  for  most  of  what  passes  for  religious, 
will  not  stand  the  test  of  clear  thinking. 
But  ethics,  applied  to  public  and  private  life, 
is  re-enforced  and  made  supreme.  It  may 
not  be  out  of  place  to  quote  here  the  conclud 
ing  paragraphs  of  an  article  published  by  the 
author  several  years  since  : 

Man  owes  : 

"  To  the  Universe,  a  willing  submission.; 
to  all  laws,  physical,  mental,  and  moral,  and 
an  active,  not  merely  passive,  existence. 

"  To  himself,  self-preservation,  culture, 
happiness,  and  self-perpetuation. 


VII 


PREFACE. 


"  To  wife,  chaste,  exclusive  love,  personal 
liberty,  and  equal  opportunities  of  life  and 
development. 

"To  children,  pure  healthy  bodies  and 
minds,  proper  care  and  development  in 
infancy,  fullest  preparation  for  an  entrance 
upon  all  the  rights  and  privileges  of  mature 
life,  and  wise  counsel  in  all  things. 

"To  fellow-men,  unabridged  rights  to 
life,  liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness, 
and  co-operation  in  securing  mutual  benefits. 

"To  the  State,  good  citizenship,  active 
effort  in  forming  and  executing  just  and 
equal  laws,  and  conformity  to  all  laws  until 
by  reformatory  education  public  thought 
shall  alter  them. 

"To  the  Past,  a  cherishing  of  all  that  is 
good  in  the  social  fabric,  in  philosophical, 
ethical,  religious,  political,  and  economic 
thought,  and  a  rejection  of  all  that  is  useless 
or  evil. 

"  To  the  Future,  all  the  progress  of 
which  he  is  capable.  He  should  bequeath 
more  than  the  legacy  of  the  Past. 

"  To  the  race,  everything.  He  owes  self- 
culture,  a  full  active  life,  a  strong  pure  man 
hood,  and  a  broad,  catholic  spirit  in  all  things, 
that  he  may  be  a  factor  in  the  evolution  of  a 
crowning  order  of  life." 

VIII 


PREFACE. 


These  constitute  an  ever-present  au 
thoritative  code  to  the  developed  man. 

But  what  of  Faith,  Worship,  Prayer? 
Where  have  you  placed  these  ?  They  are 
but  attittides  of  the  human  spirit  toward  the 
great  Unknown,  the  Infinite,  the  Universe. 

And  what  of  immortality?  If  there  be 
no  future  of  reward  and  retribution,  what 
power  will  ethical  law  have  over  us  ?  "Eat, 
drink,  and  be  merry,  for  tomorrow  we  die  !" 
This  is  but  another  form  of  the  old  question 
of  sanctions.  Belief  in  immortality  has  noth 
ing  necessarily  to  do  with  the  moral  acts  of 
men.  If  there  is  a  future  state,  it  must  be  a 
complement  to  this  state.  A  full  complete 
earth-life  must  insure  a  fitting  entrance  upon 
the  spirit-life.  Our  duties  and  opportunities 
all  lie  here.  Our  motives  and  sanctions  are 
all  here  If  immortality  is  true,  (and  most 
of  us  believe  it  in  some  form)  we  will  enter 
upon  it  prepared  for  all  its  opportunities  and 
enjoyments.  If  it  is  but  a  beautiful  dream  of 
the  ages,  we  shall  go  down  to  the  dust,  our 
bodies  dissolving  into  the  elements,  our  lives 
breathing  out  into  nothing.  We  shall  go  to 
nothing  dreadful.  The  mission  of  our  life 
will  be  ended. 

This  of  course  will  not  seem  a  fair 
return  for  taking  away  the  creeds  and  some 

IX 


PREFACE. 


of  the  unfounded  or  too  slightly  founded 
hopes  of  certain  men,  but  let  them  remember 
that  this  is  not  done  in  a  spirit  of  robbery  or 
wanton  cruelty.  Most  liberals  have  been 
driven  to  their  position  by  the  force  of  unde 
niable  facts,  reluctantly  enough  many  times, 
but  they  have  accepted  the  situation,  with  all 
its  obloquy,  with  all  the  pains  inflicted  upon 
dearest  friends,  rather  than  stand  before  the 
world  convicted  of  publicly  fostering  a  sys 
tem  of  thought  which  they  privately  believe 
false  and  pernicious.  They  are  thoroughly 
honest,  and  leave  to  the  pulpit  the  monopoly 
of  indulging  an  advanced  esoteric  thought, 
yet  teaching  publicly  a  lower  system  adapted 
(forsooth)  to  less  cultured  minds.  But  mean 
while  population  and  learning  both  are 
increasing  faster  than  the  pews  are  filling. 
And  no  wonder  ! 

Why  can  not  the  pulpit  escape  the  bond 
age  of  tradition,  and  resume  its  place  in  the 
van  of  human  thought,  a  place  usurped  by 
the  press,  and  now  too  often  used  in  truck 
ling  to  popular  demands  ? 

It  must  stand  for  living  thought,  free 
inquiry,  and  cease  maligning  the  honest 
worker  and  thinker.  Until  that  time  it  must 
remain  a  decaying  member  of  the  social  body, 
and  become  a  menace  and  curse  instead  of 


PREFACE. 


a  wholesome  conservator  and  propagator  of 
the  best  traditions  of  men.  Let  the  church 
heed  the  many-voiced  warnings  of  the  last 
century. 

The  title-poem  of  this  volume  was  writ 
ten  under  the  inspiration  of  the  lectures  of 
Col.  Robert  G.  Ingersoll,  and  is  offered  as  a 
tribute  to  him,  whom  many  delight  to  recog 
nize  as  the  manly  and  eloquent  friend  of 
man,  woman,  and  child,  the  champion  of  the 
oppressed,  the  titanic  foe  of  superstition,  the 
torch-bearer  of  intellectual  liberty. 

The  other  poems  are  a  humble  contribu 
tion  to  the  cause  for  which  the  best  blood 
has  been  spilled,  in  all  ages,  and  for  which 
obloquy  and  hissing  are  borne  now. 

J.  W.  SCROLL. 


XI 


. .  Jfote . . 


'•  The  Light-Bearer  of  Liberty  "  is  what  it 
claims  to  be, —  a  tribute  to  the  living.  While  these 
sheets  are  in  the  printer's  hands,  comes  the  sad 
news  that  the  eloquent  voice  is  silenced  forever. 

This  poem  was  written  in  August,  1898.  A 
copy  was  forwarded  with  a  personal  letter  to  Col. 
Ingersoll,  the  September  following.  On  October 
eleventh,  the  author  received  an  autograph  letter  in 
response,  which  is  now  one  of  his  choicest  treasures. 

¥  V 

COPT  OF    LETTER    FROM    COL.    ROBERT  G.    INGERSOLL   TO   J.  W.   SCHOLL, 


WALSTON,     DOBBS"    FERRY-ON-HUDSON, 

Oct.  8, 1898. 
MY  DEAR  MR.  SCHOLL, 

I  have  read  with  the  greatest  delight  your  beautiful  poem, — a 
poem  that  covers  the  whole  ground,  that  has  in  it  the  very  heart  of 
history. 

I  do  not  deserve  a  hundredth  part  of  your  generous  praise,  and  yet 
with  all  my  heart  I  thank  you  for  thinking  that  I  do.  I  have  done  but 
little,  and  yet  my  pride  is  that  that  little  has  been  done  for  the  liberty 
of  men.  To  have  gained  such  a  friend  as  you  are,  is  to  succeed. 

Are  you  going  to  have  the  poem  published?  It  is  a  great  plea, 
a  grand  argument  for  freedom.  Leaving  all  out  regarding  myself,  the 
verses  are  wonderful,  dramatic,  filled  with  the  real  flame. 

Thanking  you  and  congratulating  you  and   with  love  to    you  and 

yours, 

I  remain  yours  always, 

(Signed,)  R.  G.  INGERSOLL. 
XII 


T1?8  u$i?t-Bearer  °f  ij 


TT  TITAN  with  a  torch  in  hand 

Is  moving  in  the  midst  of  men, 
And  some  are  cursing  the  sharp  glare 
Because  their  blind  eyes  cannot  bear 
The  splendor  of  its  clear  white  light 
Athwart  the  dusks  of  ancient  Night, 

And  some  —  a  censer-swinging  band  — 
Housed  in  their  sacred  robber's-den 
Loud  rattle  old  Saint  Peter's  keys, 
Turn  bellowing  bulls  loose  from  their  sees 
To  fright  the  timid  from  the  rays 
That  pierce  their  dark  and  hidden  ways, 
i 


THE    LIGHT-BEARER   OF   LIBERTY. 

And  some,  who  dare  not  understand 

The  breadth  and  height  of  human  ken, 
Clasp  to  their  eyes  a  holy  book 
And,  thus  defended,  calmly  look 
Upon  the  flaming  torch,  and  swear 
There  is  no  torch  nor  lightnings  there. 


* 


n. 


Titan  has  a  voice  as  clear 
As    the   light  he  bears  in  his  strong 

right  hand, 

An  urgent  voice  that  men  must  hear 
Or  die  unwept  in  a  stagnant  land. 

A  voice  of  laughter  for  hours  of  mirth, 
A  voice  of  tears  for  the  time  of  grief, 

A  voice  of  joy  for  the  flowers  of  earth, 
A  voice  for  every  golden  sheaf. 


THE   LIGHT-BEARER    OF   LIBERTY. 


A  voice  for  every  honest  doubt, 
A  voice  for  every  manly  trust, 

A  voice  of  cheer  when  the  soul  is  stout, 

A  voice  of  praise  when  the  deed  is  just. 

A  voice  of  scorn  for  the  outgrown  creed, 
A  voice  of  scathe  for  the  hypocrite, 

A  voice  of  help  for  human  need, 

When  souls  in  rayless  dungeons  sit. 

A  voice  for  sculpture  and  painting  and  song 
A   voice   for   the    freedom    of    human 

thought, 
A  voice  for  the  conquest  over  wrong, 

A   voice  for   the  soul   that  was  never 
bought. 


THE    LIGHT-BEARER   OF   LIBERTY. 


A  voice  to  parry  the  tyrant's  blow, 
A  voice  to  lift  the  victim  up, 

A  voice  to  smite  the  priesthood  low, 

And  dash  from  their  hands  the  poisoned 
cup. 

A  voice  to  set  the  bondmen  free 

From  chains  of  body  and  fetters  of  soul. 
A  voice  of  battle  and  victory, 

A  voice  of  striving  to  reach  the  goal. 

A  voice  of  faith  in  the  far  event 

And  the  deathlessness  of  noble  deeds, 

And  hope  whose  iris-bow  is  bent 

O'er  the  path  that  ever  onward  leads. 


THE    LIGHT-BEARER   OF   LIBERTY. 


III. 

earth  hears  the  Voice, 
And  stands  aghast ! 
O  Earth,  rejoice ! 
The  Iconoclast 

Is  clearing  the  ground 

For  a  Pantheon  ! 
List !     Hear  the  sound  ! 

How  the  work  goes  on  ! 

There  lies  a  god 

Broken  in  twain, 
Here  a  Holy  Rood 

With  its  god's-blood  stain. 
5 


THE   LIGHT-BEARER  OF  LIBERTY. 


There  a  book  with  a  seal, 
And  a  signet  ring, 

Here  the  print  of  a  heel 
On  some  holy  thing. 

There  a  boot  and  a  screw, 
And  a  strong-box  rent, 

Here  indulgences  new 

To  the  four  winds  sent. 

There  beads  are  strewn, 
And  a  book  of  prayer, 

Here  an  image  unknown, 
And  a  surplice  rare. 


THE   LIGHT-BEARER    OF    LIBERTY. 


There  the  bones  of  a  saint 
Tossed  out  in  the  mire, 

Here  a  rag  with  the  taint 
Of  martyrdom's  fire. 

There  an  iron  bed 

Is  crushed  at  a  blow, 
Here  a  bishop's  head 

And  a  king's  below. 

There  the  nails  of  a  cross, 
And  a  shirt  of  Treves. 

O  Earth  !     what  a  loss  ! 
For  the  Titan  leaves 


THE   LIGHT-BEARER   OF   LIBERTY. 


But  the  barren  ground 
For  a  Pantheon  ! 

List !     Hear  the  sound  ! 

How  the  work  goes  on  ! 


THE   LIGHT-BEARER    OF   LIBERTY. 


IV. 

ISE,  true  men, 
Build  it  again, 

Build  it  anew  ! 
Out  of  the  dust 
Build  it  more  just, 

Build  it  more  true  ! 

Build  it  to  last, 
Build  it  more  vast, 

Grand  as  the  soul ! 
Build  without  flaw, 
Base  it  on  law, 

Perfect  and  whole  ! 
9 


THE    LIGHT-BEARER    OF   LIBERTY. 


V. 

JT1HAT  does  the  Voice  cry  ? 
^*    There  is  no  hell. 
There  is  no  god  of  blight  and  blood, 
Of  pestilence  and  fire  and  flood. 

No  Adam  fell. 
No  child  is  damned. 

No  chosen  sect. 
No  heaven  crammed 

With  God's  elect. 

No  miracle ! 


10 


THE   LIGHT-BEARER   OF   LIBERTY. 


No  One  in  Three, 
No  Three  in  One, 
No  world  undone  ! 

Of  mystery 
No  priest  or  prophet ! 

No  purchase-blood 
To  save  from  Tophet ! 

No  tithes  of  food 

God's  leeches  to  fee  ! 
This  is  the  Titan's  cry. 


ii 


THE   LIGHT-BEARER   OF   LIBERTY. 


VI. 

Voice  cries  out  again  : 
Strike  the  bonds  from  the  limbs  of  men 
Strike  the  chains  from  the  minds  of  men  ! 
Strike  the  hate  from  the  hearts  of  men  ! 
Strike  the  lusts  from  the  flesh  of  men  ! 
Strike  the  lie  from  the  lips  of  men  ! 
Strike  the  creeds  from  the  souls  of  men  ! 
Let  in  the  Light  and  the  Love  again  ! 


12 


THE   LIGHT-BEARER   OF   LIBERTY. 


VII. 

EST  Goddess  of  a  noble  throng, 

O  Liberty,  desired  so  long, 
Thy  latest  Torch-bearer  we  hail ! 
Long  be  it  ere  his  strength  shall  fail ! 
Long  may  the  Titan's  stalwart  hand 
Hurl  thy  swift  lightnings  through  the  land 
Long  may  the  Titan's  potent  word 
In  thine  all-conquering  cause  be  heard  ! 
And  when  his  lingering  hour  shall  come, 
Lift  thou  the  Light !  O  be  not  dumb  ! 
Sustain  and  cheer,  uphold  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget,  lest  we  forget ! 


THE   LIGHT-BEARER   OF   LIBERTY. 


VIII. 

JjND  must  we  wait  till  a  great  man  dies, 
And  honor  him  with  a  pile  of  stone 
And  a  statue  carved  with  a  brave  "here  lies," 
To  keep  his  fame  and  virtues  known  ? 

Such  posthumous  praise  is  too  long  deferred, 
When  the  dead  fare  well,  where  the  liv 
ing  fared  worse ! 

The  man  who  speaks  an  immortal  word 
Better  beseems  an  immortal  verse 

Flung  out  to  the  winds  of  the  listening  Earth, 
Or  a  living  wreath  for  his  living  head. 

Take  then  this  wreath !  It  is  little  worth, 
But  I  would  not  wait  till  thou  art  dead. 
14 


THE   LIGHT-BEARER   OF   LIBERTY. 


IX. 

<>  E  still,  proud  bells  ! 

Hush  your  dissonant  clamors  ! 

Stay  your  pendent  hammers  ! 
Be  still,  proud  bells ! 

This  fete  is  not  for  you 

High  up  in  your  gothic  towers, 
A  gala  day  for  the  few 

Who  defy  tyrannic  powers. 

A  sacrament  day  to  me, 

With  wine  and  wafers  of  love, 

For  the  Master  abides  with  me 

And  throbs  through  me  with  his  love. 


THE   LIGHT-BEARER    OF    LIBERTY. 


And  the  world  has  a  hope  today, 
And  the  burden  is  lifted  quite, 

And  the  future  stretches  away 

O'erarched  with  a  bow  of  light. 

Be  still,  proud  bells  ! 

If  we  mourned  him  dead, 
You  would  laugh  over  head  ! 

Be  still,  proud  bells  ! 


16 


THE   LIGHT-BEARER   OF   LIBERTY. 


X. 

•O  ING  out,  glad  bells ! 

Swing  your  pendent  hammers  ! 

Loose  your  dissonant  clamors  ! 
Ring  out,  glad  bells  ! 

The  joy  of  this  day  is  for  all, 

For  you  in  your  gothic  towers, 

Ring  out  sweet  Liberty's  call, 

And  startle  the  tyrant  powers  ! 

Leap  up  to  the  regions  of  light, 

Give  it  tongue  and  never  cease, 

Leap  out  of  your  ghostly  night, 

And  utter  his  message  of  peace ! 
17 


THE   LIGHT-BEARER   OF   LIBERTY. 


For  the  best  you  know  today, 

You  owe  to  the  stalwart  hand 

That  threw  your  idols  away 

And  tore  faith's  blinding  band  ! 

Ring  out,  glad  bells  ! 

If  you  knew  him,  when  dead, 
You  would  sob  overhead  ! 

Ring  out,  sad  bells  ! 


18 


THE    LIGHT-BEARER   OF    LIBERTY. 


XI. 

E  Kings  of  the  Earth, 
The  Smiter's  hand  is  at  your  thrones, 
An  eagle-pinioned  Age  disowns 
Your  right  of  birth  ! 

Your  first  born  prince 

May  be  but  a  worthless  driveling  fool, 
A  hare-brained  rake,  or  an  easy  tool 

Of  intrigue  or  chance. 

And  the  heavens,  methinks, 

Are  tired  of  the  red  incessant  flood, 
For  strewn  with  gore  and  sodden  with 

blood 

The  whole  earth  stinks. 
19 


THE   LIGHT-BEARER   OF   LIBERTY. 


Because,  forsooth, 

Two  knaves  of  royal  birth  would  reign, 
One  knave  and  half  his  realm  is  slain 

With  no  more  ruth 

Than  a  spider  feels, 

When  caught  in  his  web  with  tangled 
wings 

A.  swarm  of  blue-mailed  insects  clings 
In  the  knitted  wheels, 

For  common  blood 

Is  only  fit  to  manure  the  ground, 

Or  tempt  the  vultures  to  wheel  around 

Their  wonted  food ! 


20 


THE  LIGHT-BEARER  OF  LIBERTY. 


Quail !     Kings  of  the  Earth  ! 

For  the  Smiter's  hand  is  at  your  thrones 
And  the  eagle-pinioned  Age  disowns 

Your  right  of  birth  ! 

Hark  !     Hear  the  cry  ! 

Freedom,  Equality,  Brotherhood  ! 

Risen  from  one  baptism  of  blood 
Where  thousands  lie, 

They  offer  peace — 

An  olive  branch  with  a  stain  of  blood — 
O  take  it,  and  spare  the  rich  red  flood 

That  shall  not  cease 


THE   LIGHT-BEARER   OF   LIBERTY. 


Till  Earth  is  free, 

And  every  kingdom  is  overthrown, 
And  crowns  and  scepters  are  bawbles 
grown 

For  Democracy  ! 

It  comes  !     It  comes  ! 

Let  it  be  peace  or  let  it  be  war  ! 

Choose,  ye  Nations  !     I  hear  it  afar 
With  trumpets  and  drums  ! 

Ye  Freemen,  choose  ! 

Surge,  surge  and  emerge  from  royalty's 

ban, 
Try  the  loss  of  a  king  and  the  gain  of 

man  ! 
Ye  cannot  lose ! 


22 


THE   LIGHT-BEARER    OF   LIBERTY. 


Fall !     Kings  of  the  Earth  ! 

The  Smiter's  hand  is  at  your  thrones, 
And  the  eagle-pinioned  Age  disowns 

Your  right  of  birth. 


THE   LIGHT-BEARER   OF   LIBERTY. 

XII. 

Deums  sing, 
Most  noble  King 
Of  rich  Brazil  ! 

You  left  the  throne, 

Now  reigns  alone 

The  People's  will ! 

Long  sit  serene 
Brittania's  Queen, 

Hoar  figure-head  ! 
The  day  has  dawned  ! 
Your  crown  is  pawned, 

Your  office  dead  ! 

But  Dies  irae — 
Ordeals  fiery — 

For  all  the  others, 
Till  the  will  of  one 
Is  a  law  to  none 

And  men  are  brothers  ! 
24 


THE   LIGHT-BEARER   OF   LIBERTY 


XIII. 

f+OME,  O  Woman,  noble  Queen, 
^^  Crowning  Masterpiece  of  Time, 

Evolution's  work  sublime, 
Choicest  creature  ever  seen  ! 

Crown  your  great  Deliverer  ! 

Bring  the  conqueror's  meed  of  oak  ! 

He  your  galling  bondage  broke, 
His  the  mightiest  thunders  were. 

You  were  slaves  of  slaves  at  first — 

Old  Saint  Paul  had  made  you  so- 
Abject,  suffering,  full  of  woe- 
Saints  despised  you,  Jahveh  cursed — 
25 


THE   LIGHT-BEARER     OF    LIBERTY. 


Silent,  serving  tyrant  man, 

Doll  or  mistress,  chattel,  ward, 
Man  your  lord  as  Christ  his  lord, 

Blot  on  fair  creation's  plan  ! 

Necessary  evils,  you  ! 

How  could  man  be  born,  in  truth  ? 

Man,  creation's  lord,  forsooth  ! 
Any  ape,  meseems,  would  do  ! 

So  your  wings  were  early  clipped, 

Bearing  children  half  your  sphere, 
Other  half  a  husband's  fear, 

Love-buds  frosty  curses  nipped. 


26 


THE    LIGHT-BEARER    OF   LIBERTY. 


Priests  were  slaves  to  self-made  ghosts, 
Men  were  slaves  to  wily  priests, 
Women  slaves  to  both  the  beasts, 

So  it  pleased  the  Lord  of  Hosts  ! 

So  it  stands  in  holy  writ,  — 

Holy  bugbear  for  the  race  ;  — 
Woman  meekly  took  her  place, 

And  the  ages  hallowed  it. 

Rise,  O  Woman,  noble  Queen, 

Crowning  Masterpiece  of  Time, 
Evolution's  work  sublime, 

Choicest  creature  ever  seen  ! 


27 


THE    LIGHT-BEARER    OF   LIBERTY. 


Voices  came  from  out  the  deeps, 

Thoughts  that  battled  hard  and  long, 
Manacled  by  priestly  wrong  ; 

Freedom  burst  her  donjon-keeps  ; 

Skulls  grew  larger,  senses  finer, 
Justice  snatched  the  balances, 
Love  climbed  up  through  swift  degrees, 

Human  life  became  diviner  ; 

Ghosts  and  priests  have  slowly  sunk, 
Men  and  women  slowly  climb, 
Woman  yet  shall  rise  sublime, 

Ghosts  be  lower  than  a  monk  ! 


28 


THE   LIGHT-BEARER   OF    LIBERTY. 


She  shall  own  her  intellect, 

Own  her  head  and  heart  and  hand, 
Every  door  shall  open  stand 

Wheresoe'er  her  brain  elect  ! 

She  shall  own  her  flesh  and  blood. 

Marriage  vows  shall  make  no  slaves. 

Legal  vice  shall  dig  no  graves 
For  polluted  motherhood ! 

And  the  Man  shall  honors  do, 

Girdle  her  with  service  sweet, 
Find  his  heaven  at  her  feet, 

Noble,  generous,  manly,  true  ! 


29 


THE   LIGHT-BEARER   OF   LIBERTY. 


Come,  O  Woman,  noble  Queen, 

Crowning  Masterpiece  of  Time, 
Evolution's  work  sublime, 

Choicest  creature  ever  seen  ! 

Crown  your  strong  Deliverer  ! 

Bring  the  civic  wreath  of  oak  ! 

Hail,  O  Lifter  of  the  yoke  ! 
Hail,  O  mighty  Thunderer  ! 


THE    LIGHT-BEARER    OF   LIBERTY. 


XIV. 

<XIMPLED  babies,  pink  and  white, — 

Heaven's  own  embodied  light, — 
Lent  for  balm  to  mortal  sight ! 

Who  would  dare  to  look  within 
Souls  like  yours,  to  heaven  akin, 
Swearing  they  are  stuffed  with  sin  ? 

• 

Lips  that  touched  a  mother's  breast, 
Hands  that  mothers'  hands  have  pressed, 
Cheeks  that  mothers'  cheeks  caressed, 

Need  no  priestly  rites  baptismal, 
Need  no  shelter  from  the  abysmal 
Gulf  of  Hades  dark  and  dismal. 


THE   LIGHT-BEARER    OF    LIBERTY. 


Were  you,  priests,  but  half  so  pure, 
Though  the  earth  should  not  endure, 
You  might  hope  to  sit  secure  ! 

Gooing  babies,  helpless  pygmies, 
Who  shall  solve  your  Fate's  enigmas  ? 
Who  shall  save  you  from  Earth's  stigmas  ? 

Who  shall  keep  your  bodies  sweet  ? 

Who  shall  guide  uncertain  feet  ? 

Who  shall  choose  when  pathways  meet  ? 

Who  shall  wield  the  potent  charm 
Timely  wise  to  sound  the  alarm 
To  forefend  approaching  harm  ? 


THE    LIGHT-BEARER    OF    LIBERTY. 


Who  unveil  to  questioning  eyes 
All  the  shadowy  world  that  lies 
Back  of  life's  realities  ? 

Who  shall  lift  Deception's  masks  ? 
Fathers,  mothers,  these  your  tasks ! 
Higher,  nobler,  no  one  asks  ! 

Unconsulted  little  wights, 
Subject  to  ten  thousand  slights, 
You  have  most  undoubted  rights, 

Right  to  birth  by  choice,  not  chance, 
Full  fruition,  slow  advance, 
Taintless  flesh,  intelligence, 


33 


THE    LIGHT-BEARER    OF    LIBERTY. 


Perfect  function,  faultless  form, 

Appetite  and  senses  warm, 

Sex  and  love  for  passion's  storm. 

Who  would  bring  you  into  light 
Out  of  Being's  primal  night 
And  make  void  one  single  right, 

Should  be  cursed  with  childlessness, 
Never  know  Love's  sweet  embrace, 
Never  feel  a  child's  caress  ! 

Irresponsible  for  being, 

Not  dissenting  nor  agreeing, 

Neither  seeking  life  nor  fleeing, 


34 


THE    LIGHT-BEARER    OF   LIBERTY. 


Fated  as  the  scattered  wheat 
Basking  in  autumnal  heat 
Underneath  the  sower's  feet, 

Flowers  of  sweet  humanity, 
Shall  the  promised  harvest  be 
Absolutest  property  ? 

i 

Shall  the  father  own  the  soul  ? 
Play  the  slaver's  hated  role  ? 
Body,  brain  and  life  control  ? 

Muse  of  Liberty,  protest ! 

Do  sweet  childhood's  one  behest 

Till  its  wrongs  are  all  redressed ! 


35 


THE   LIGHT-BEARER    OF   LIBERTY. 


Dimpled  babies,  pink  and  white, — 
Heaven's  own  embodied  light,— 
Lent  for  balm  to  mortal  sight  ! 

Hopes  that  shine  like  radiant  stars, 
Loves  indrifting  across  the  bars, — 
Soul's  incessant  avatars  ! 

Leaders  of  each  new  crusade 
'Gainst  the  realms  of  darkness  made, 
We  will  send  you  willing  aid  ! 

We,  the  elders,  see  the  light, 
Breaking  at  the  close  of  night, 
You  are  standing  in  the  white 

Radiance  of  a  fairer  dawn  ! 
Shout  "God  speed  !"  and  cheer  them  on, 
Till  the  night  is  wholly  gone  ! 
36 


THE    LIGHT-BEARER    OF   LIBERTY. 


XV. 

~Tf  CRY  of  Humanity  : 

O  voice  of  a  thousand  streams  unpent, 
Down  leaping  from  rock  to  rock  dashing  to 

spray  ! 
O   roar  of  tempest   and   wrestle    of    mighty 

whirlwind, 

Unrestrained  and  mad,  yet  not  lawless  ! 
O  types  of  true  men,  mighty,  unfettered ! 
Cry  and  utter  adown  the  blast  : 
lo  paean  !     An  endless  shout, 
Blast  of  trumpets  and  lusty  throats  ! 
Hosanna  !  and  Gloria  in  excelsis  ! 
Honor  and  laud  for  the  mighty  rescue  ! 


37 


THE   LIGHT-BEARER   OF   LIBERTY. 


The  new  blood  surges  in  fetterless  limbs, 
The  new  blood  surges  in  quivering  brains, 
And  thoughts  flash  out  like  sparks  from  an 

anvil  ! 

The  whole  world  is  kindling. 
A  new  aeon  is  born,  and  the  new  Phoenix 

arises 

From  cold  ashes  of  slavish  death 
And  sweeps   on    majestic    wing  toward   the 

flaming  East  ! 

Gather,  O  mighty  men,  and  behold  ! 
O  magnificent  mothers,  and  gaze  on  it  ! 
And  your  children  shall  shine  and  burn  with 

the  flame  of  it, 
And  the  great  Law  shall  be  written  no  more 

in  books, 

Nor  be  graven  on  stone, 
But  the  brain  and  heart  shall  be  law  enough, 
And  even  young  blood  shall  be  law  enough  j 

38 


THE   LIGHT-BEARER    OF   LIBERTY. 


Not  by  fear  shall  the  Right  bear  rule, 

But  by  love,  and  he  that  loves  best 

Shall  be  the  Exemplar  and  bear  the  scepter, 

Yet  he  shall  not  bear  rule  ! 

Each  man  shall  be  king  of  himself ! 

Each  woman  queen  of  herself ! 

Each  child  the  lord  of  itself,  reverend, 

Reverenced  above  the  Kings  and  Queens  of 
the  Earth, 

For  the  child-soul  is  the  budding  of  a  mil 
lion  generations, 

And  grander  by  implication  of  a  million  new 
generations, 

The    harvest    and    seeding  at    once    of   the 
infinite  Past  and  the  Future  ! 

Shout    aloud!     Let    joy    be    unbounded   as 
life  is  unbounded ! 

The  new  Order  be  a  monument  to  him 

And  to  every  Titan  that  broke  a  bond 

Or  struck  a  blow  for  the  rescue  ! 
39 


THE   LIGHT-BEARER   OF   LIBERTY. 


XVI. 

PIRITS,  goblins,  gods  and  ghosts, 

Marshall  your  aerial  hosts, 
Spread  your  gauze  or  leathern  wings 
And  descend  in  narrowing  rings  ! 

Squeak  or  gibber,  shriek  or  thunder, 
Cleave  the  cloudless  sky  asunder, 
Show  your  forms  to  mortal  sight, 
Wheel  around  us  and  alight  ! 

Silence !     What  ?     Ye  will  not  come  ? 
Earth  is  speechless  !     Heaven  dumb  ! 
Gods  and  ghosts  and  goblins  gone, 
Frightened  from  the  glowing  dawn  ! 


40 


THE   LIGHT-BEARER   OF   LIBERTY. 


XVII. 

H  AT  is  the  end  and  meaning  of  a  life  ? 

Is  it  to  feel  the  tides  of  spirit  surge 
Through  every  fiber  of  the  heart  and  brain 
And  seal  the  lips  forever  ?    To  know  a  truth 
And  choke  and  smother  it  within  the  soul, 
Lest  the  quick  eye  and  tell-tale  earnest  face 
Should  half  reveal  it  to  a  struggling  brother  ? 
O  agony  of  silence  !     Must  it  be 
That,  standing  in  the  surging  throngs  of  men 
Whose  dullard  senses  feel  nor  see  nor  hear 
The  world  that  lies  within  them  and  above, 


THE    LIGHT-BEARER   OF   LIBERTY. 


My  tongue  is  silent  ?     Must  I  feel  and  see 
The  shame  and  degradation  of  a  world 
And  hear  the  clanking  chains  that  shackle 

thought, 
And  yet  not  speak  ?  Nay,  I  will    speak,  must 

speak, 
Though  I  should  stand  alone  and  scorned  of 

men, 

For,  in  full  consecration  to  my  task, 
I'd  rather  be  called  infidel  by  man 
Than  live  unfaithful  to  my  highest  thought  ! 


THE   LIGHT-BEARER   OF   LIBERTY. 


XVIII. 

Herald  of  the  whitening  dawn, 
Maligned  and  hated,  cursed,  misunder 
stood, 
Yet  dreaded  by  the  Night's  misgotten 

brood, — 
Tithe-mongering    hypocrites    that    lick    and 

fawn 

The  hand  of  power,  but  rudely  trample  on 
The   helpless   weakling  and  despoil  his 

good, 

And  shoddy  saints   with  villainy  indued 
In  purple  robes,  and  Superstition's  spawn 
That  fill  the  cushioned  pews  and  take  their 

ease 

While  reverend  Dulness  drones  the  liturgies, 
Or  bustling  Mediocrity  displays 
The  curious  gleanings  of  his  college  days  ! — 
The  heathen  rage,  but  thou  art  still  serene, 
Olympian,  gazing  on  the  troubled  scene. 
43 


THE   LIGHT-BEARER   OF   LIBERTY. 


But  here  and  there  a  soul  is  kindled  new 

With  fire  asbestous,  and  all  human  creeds 
And  schemes  born  of  imperious  human 

needs 

Are  tested  in  the  crucible  anew, 
The  false  burnt  out,  and  radiant  left  the  true. 
His  constant  fire  the  cunning  chemist 

feeds 

And  fans  to  flame  the  smouldering  fur 
nace  gleeds, 

Till  all  is  tested  or  Life's  day  is  through  ! 
These    build    Earth's    consecrated    Brother 
hood, 

Sworn  foes  of  evil,  friends  of  every  good. 
Thou,  Titan,  art  the  clear  white  light  of  it. 
Long  years  among  us  deign,  revered,  to    sit, 
And  we  will  wreathe  an  amaranthine  crown 
To  match  the  deathlessness   of  thy  renown  ! 


44 


Jl?e  Spectral  l/isitapt. 


¥  looked  up  from  the  mighty  book. 

My  hands  with  toil-worn  palsy  shook, 
And  sight  my  sleepless  orbs  forsook, 


Or  seemed  a  moment  to  forsake, 
Then  out  of  darkness  seemed  to  make 
A  specter  that  all  hues  would  take,  — 

A  form  inconstant  as  a  dream's, 

Shot  through  and  through  with  living 

beams,— 
A  tissue  strange  of  dusks  and  gleams. 

And  then  with  preternatural  sight 
I  saw  —  O  vision  of  affright  !  — 
Myself,    that  hollow  ghost  of  Night  ! 

45 


THE    SPECTRAL   VISITANT. 


And  in  its  haggard  lineaments  read 
The  marble  lips  of  one  long  dead 
That  moved  as  if  they  something  said. 

I  heard  within  my  midnight  room 

A  sigh  as  when  a  sense  of  doom 

Strikes  through  grim  Death's  abysmal  gloom, 

And  two  cold  eyes  abashed  my  own. 

I  shivered  and  I  felt  alone 

With  hope  and  courage  well-nigh  gone, 

Whereat  the  lips  of  spectral  mould 
Made  bold  to  taunt  me  ;  "Thou  art  old  ! 
Thy  blood  with  sleepless  toil  grows  cold  ! 


46 


THE   SPECTRAL   VISITANT. 


Consider  well  thy  little  span  — 

How  swift  thy  youthful  decades  ran  — 

How  swifter  flies  the  age  of  man  ! 

There  is  no  harvest  in  the  years, 
But  ever  seed-time  full  of  tears 
Beguiled  by  hope  that  harvest  nears  !  " 

He  saw  my  eyes  with  misery  fill, 
Whereat  he  smote  with  bolder  skill, 
With  purpose  to  dethrone  my  will ; 

"  O  earthy  Earth,  that  wert  not  meant 
To  conquer  the  environment 
That  Mother  Nature  kindly  lent, 


47 


THE   SPECTRAL   VISITANT. 


'Tis  but  a  fever  of  the  blood 

That  tells  thee  of  unconquered  good 

Beyond  thy  fated  humanhood  ! 

Were  it  not  best  to  sit  content 

Within  thy  humble  element, 

Nor  strive  for  dubious  betterment  ?" 

Whereat  I  rallied  and  replied  ; 

"  Who  said  that  Hope  had  ever  lied  ? 

For  Time  is  long,  the  World  is  wide  !" 

A  cold  smile  beamed  across  his  face  ; 
"Art  thou  coaeval  with  the  race  ? 
Or  fillest  but  some  sorry  space 


48 


THE    SPECTRAL   VISITANT. 


Of  three  score  years  and  ten,  or  less, 

With  long-complaining  weariness, 

Scarce  heard  amid  Earth's  storm  and  stress  ? 

Is  Earth  a  furlong  wide  to  thee 
Who  never  traversed  land  or  sea, 
Save  in  this  musty  library  ?" 

I  dared  not  answer  what  I  meant, 
Lest  Hope's  best  shafts  as  idly  spent 
Leave  me  devoid  of  armament. 

Taking  my  silence  for  defeat, 

He  bent  his  questioning  orbs  to  meet 

The  great  book  fallen  at  my  feet. 


49 


THE   SPECTRAL   VISITANT. 


I  said  :     "The  Masters  lived  and  wrought, 
They  moulded  worlds  to  fit  their  thought, 
By  them  the  great  Soul  must  be  taught." 

"And  if  he  try  his  hand  untaught, 
What  frightful  wrongs  are  oft  inwrought 
In  every  deed,"  he  said  ;  "and  thought  ! 

And  if  he  wait  till  all  is  learned, 
And  Life's  dim  lamp  is  wholly  burned, 
What  is  the  fruit  his  toil  has  earned  ? 

Hast  thou  the  genial  medium  found 
Where  thoughts  and  deeds  alike  abound, 
Where  thoughts  and  deeds  alike  are   sound  ? 


THE   SPECTRAL   VISITANT. 


Confess,  poor  Toiler  on  the  shore 
Of  ancient  wreckage,  that  thy  lore 
Is  less  than  theirs  who  went  before ! 

And  yet  beyond  a  vague  perchance, 
Thou  wilt  the  Scholar's  toil  enhance, 
Thy  books  impeding  all  advance  !" 

Before  my  startled  eyes  he  stept, 

To  where  my  garnered  treasures  slepped, 

And  clutched  my  precious  manuscript, 

And,  with  a  mocking  glance,  elate, 

Tossed  it  into  the  blazing  grate, 

My  heart's  blood  froze, — grown  cold  of  late,- 


5' 


THE   SPECTRAL   VISITANT. 


To  see  the  pages  smoke  and  curl, 

And  flamelets  dance  and  leap  and  whirl, 

I  thought  of  each  Rialto  pearl 

There  garnered,  worth  a  kingdom's  price, 
Destroyed  like  kingdoms  in  a  trice, 
When  coldly  questioned  that  hard  voice  ; 

"Will  any  frugal  meal  taste  worse, 
Or  any  dawn  grow  dark  with  curse 
For  wanting  of  thy  lost  discourse  ? 

And  see,  thou  hast  a  sprightlier  fire 
To  flicker  like  thy  heart's  desire 
A  moment,  and  with  it  expire  ! " 


THE   SPECTRAL   VISITANT. 


I  could  not  speak  but  only  weep 

To  watch  the  flame-tongues  slowly  creep, 

When  from  its  dead  lethargic  sleep 

My  soul  awoke  and  whispered  near : 
"O  heavy  Heart,  be  of  good  cheer, 
Thy  pearls  and  gold  are  garnered  here  ! 

Thou  art  the  sum  of  three  score  years, 
The  ripened  fruit  of  toil  and  tears, 
Thyself  the  harvest  of  whitened  ears  !  " 

Whereat  I  felt  a  kindly  hope 
Dawn  swiftly  up  the  Eastern  slope 
And  gleam  beyond  the  heavens'  cope. 


S3 


THE   SPECTRAL   VISITANT. 


Which  swift  divining  from  my  face, 
Wherein  no  tear  had  left  its  trace 
The  Soul's  clear  morning  to  deface ; 

"  No  seed  of  all  that  harvest  sown, 

It  profits  little  to  have  grown," 

He  said  :  "  when  thou  and  thine  art  gone. 

What  comfort  is  it  now  to  thee 
The  sum  of  three  score  years  to  be, 
Yet  not  of  Time's  infinity  ? 

Thou  hast  but  garnered  a  few  seeds, 
Immixed  with  chaff  and  noxious  weeds, 
Fit  only  for  the  furnace  gleeds, 


54 


THE   SPECTRAL  VISITANT. 


Which  each  has  garnered  in  his  turn, 
And  others  many  yet  shall  learn 
To  boast,  ere  they  to  dust  return. 

But  in  the  cycle  of  the  years, 

Is  there  a  gain  to  match  their  tears, 

Or  circle  all  in  like  careers  ? 

What  boots  it  to  be  learned,  and  die  ? 
The  unlettered  laughs  as  merrily, 
And  both  at  length  shall  equal  lie. 

What  books  it  to  be  rich  and  great  ? 
The  plowman  on  thy  broad  estate, 
Gets  sunshine  at  as  cheap  a  rate. 


55 


THE   SPECTRAL   VISITANT. 


Wilt  thou  grow  overbold  by  hopes 
That  seem  to  dawn  on  golden  slopes  ? 
Thy  face  betrays  how  thy  heart  gropes, 

And  new  springs  of  unbidden  tears 
But  show  how  desert  are  thy  years, 
Thou  puny  last  of  many  peers  ! 

Surely  'twere  best  to  sit  content 

Within  thy  humble  element 

Nor  strive  for  dubious  betterment !" 

At  length,  my  sorrows  partly  spent, 
A  little  cry  of  hope  found  vent 
That  to  my  spirit  courage  lent  ; 


THE   SPECTRAL   VISITANT. 


"  Each  age  grows  better  than  the  last, 
The  Present  richer  than  the  Past, 
By  Futures  still  to  be  surpassed  ! " 

"  How  wilt  thou  prove  it  ?"  spake  the  ghost; 
"  The  Past  is  gone,  and  wholly  lost, 
And  all  thou  knowest  is,  at  most, 

What  men  have  dreamed  the  Past  should  be 
And  built  with  various  phantasy 
Out  of  the  wrecks  of  History  ! 

The  Future  is  an  unseen  bourn 

That  fond  hearts  call  the  Land  of  Morn 

Where  all  millenniums  are  born. 


57 


THE   SPECTRAL   VISITANT. 


Each  Age  is  different,  'tis  true, 
By  growing  into  something  new, 
Whereof  the  earlier  dreamed  nor  knew, 

But  every  gain  has  recompense 
By  equal  loss  of  parts  or  sense 
Grown  useless  in  Time's  consequence  ; 

And  even  progress  is  but  change 

To  undreamed  somethings  wild  or  strange, 

But  never  unto  wider  range  ! 

But  thou,  list  to  the  endless  wail 
Of  Sorrow,  brooding  o'er  each  vale  ! 
See  Care  sit  silent,  deadly  pale, 


THE   SPECTRAL    VISITANT. 


Half-dreaming  of  Saturnian  reigns, 
And  Edens  lost,  that  none  regains  ! 
What  say  to  thee  these  endless  threnes  ? 

Do  they  not  mock  thy  golden  dreams 
And  clip  the  Future  of  his  beams  ?" 
The  firelight  fell,  and  dimmed  its  gleams. 

The  shriveled  parchment  in  the  grate 
Lay  black  and  dead,  and  I,  of  late 
So  strong,  felt  all  my  strength  abate, 

As  if  the  fires  of  Life  had  burned 
Till  all  my  soul  to  cinders  turned. 
But  inward  heat  all  undiscerned 


59 


THE   SPECTRAL   VISITANT. 


Leaped  forth  to  flame.  "Grim  ghost  !"  I  said  : 
"Though  beaten  back,  I  am  not  dead, 
Against  thee  shall  my  soul  make  head  ! 

For  man  at  least  sometimes  is  meant 

To  overleap  environment 

And  send  a  thrill  of  glad  content 

Through  all  the  old  world's  dullard  nerves  ! 
The  great  Soul  comes,  the  old  world  swerves 
And  leaps  in  new  and  undreamed  curves ! 

Is  it  not  worth  some  strife  to  be 
A  Soul  of  such  compelling,  free, 
Exerting  world-wide  potency  ?" 


60 


THE   SPECTRAL   VISITANT. 


"  If  true,  small  comfort,  seems  to  me  ! 
Oh!  Ay  !  "  he  said  so  mockingly  ; 
"Thou  art  that  Soul  of  potency? 

Once  in  a  century  is  born 

A  great  Soul  flashing  like  the  morn 

From  out  the  Void's  unmeasured  bourn, 

But  myriads,  while  that  age  flits  by, 
Leap  into  life  with  one  faint  cry, 
Creep  out  of  life  with  one  faint  sigh, 

And  round  life's  dull  monotony 
With  so  much  toil  and  penury, 
And  so  much  care  and  misery. 


61 


THE   SPECTRAL   VISITANT. 


What  boots  it  if  great  souls  are  sent 
Across  a  fair  world's  firmament, 
If  thou  art  wretched,  uncontent, 

Among  the  myriads  that  were  meant 
To  yield  to  stern  environment 
That  Mother  Earth  so  kindly  lent? 

Besides,  no  Soul  heroic  drew 
From  husks  of  books  the  living  dew, 
But  shared  fair  Nature  as  she  grew!" 

"  Though  hard,  O  Spectral  Visitant, 
Thy  words,  and  of  soft  soothing  scant, 
Thou  hast  thyself  the  weapon  lent 


62 


THE   SPECTRAL   VISITANT. 


Wherewith  I  conquer,"  thus  I  said  ; 
"  I  close  these  books  that  seem  so  dead, 
I  choose  the  Living  Book  instead  !  " 

To  which  replied  the  mocking  Voice  ; 
"  I  wish  thee  joy  of  thy  new  choice  ! 
How  must  thy  shriveled  soul  rejoice, 

To  count  the  petals  of  the  rose, 

To  note  the  wind  that,  veering,  blows, 

To  mark  the  dawn  that  roseate  glows, 

To  dig  huge  fossils,  dip  the  seas, 
Out-quarry  mountains,  fell  great  trees, 
Or  watch  in  curious  towers,  at  ease, 


THE   SPECTRAL   VISITANT. 


The  planets  in  their  orbits  swing, 
Or,  lighting  on  some  nearer  thing, 
Note  how  the  hived  bees  lose  their  sting, 

Or  how  the  busy  ants  entwine 
Their  deft  antennae  long  and  fine, 
And  talk  like  humans  infantine. 

The  task  were  scarce  a  thousandth  done 

When  one  poor  mortal  life  is  run! 

Thou  hadst,  perchance,  some  respite  won 

From  moldering  care  and  misery, 
But  all  thy  learning  dies  with  thee! 
What  profits  that  to  thee  or  me?" 


64 


THE   SPECTRAL   VISITANT. 


He  said.     I  answered  cheerily; 
"  Is  respite  won  from  misery 
So  little  worth  to  thee  and  me  ?" 

"  And  death  is  respite  equally  ! 
Does  this  make  hemlock  taste  to  thee 
Like  nectar  ? "  answered  sneeringly 

The  Voice.     And  all  my  members  shook 
With  palsy,  at  his  darkened  look, 
And  warmth  my  pallid  cheeks  forsook. 

He  raised  aloft  in  his  right  hand, 
As  light  as  fairy  lifts  her  wand, 
A  gleaming  two-edged  battle-brand, 


THE  SPECTRAL   VISITANT. 


And  Azrael  grew  his  form  apace. 
I  shrunk,  and  fell  upon  my  face, 
And  prayed  him  for  a  little  space  ; 

Whereat  he  laughed  :    "A  little  life, 
Though  old  and  sere  and  full  of  strife, 
Is  sweeter  than  this  spectral  knife 

That  would  bring  respite?  Man,  arise, 
Confess  that  striving  toward  the  skies, 
Is  cause  of  all  thy  miseries!  " 

A  voice  within  refused  assent, 

I  would  not  rot  in  ease,  content 

To  take  what  gifts  the  earth-gods  sent, 


66 


THE   SPECTRAL   VISITANT. 


But,  humbled,  I  arose  and  stood, 
And  questioned  every  human  good, 
To  find  the  crown  of  humanhood. 

Long  balancing  with  bated  breath, 
The  nice  accounts  of  Life  and  Death, 
I  held  with  him  who  nobly  saith, 

That  Life  is  ever  lord  of  Death. 

I  chose  wild  pulse-beats,  panting  breath, 

And  stirrings  of  the  inward  wraith 

That  makes  a  tumult  in  the  veins, 
And  feels  the  worth  of  joys  and  pains, 
And  lords  it  over  dust,  and  reigns, 


THE   SPECTRAL   VISITANT. 


Albeit  for  a  sorry  space! 

At  length,  I  lifted  up  my  face, 

As  one  who  overlives  disgrace, 

And  said  :    "  Death's  respite  is  decay, 

But  Life's  rest  is  the  subtle  play 

Of  nerves  that  feel  the  touch  of  May." 

"  The  dead  feel  naught.     The  living  feel. 
I  lately  saw  thee,  stricken,  kneel, 
And  cold  white  lids  with  thy  lips  seal, 

And  thine  own  lids  deep  purple  grew, 
And  grief  rained  through  them  bitter  dew, 
Who  suffered  most,  the  dead  or  you  ?  " 


68 


THE    SPECTRAL   VISITANT. 


He  smote  me  with  a  grief  so  near, 
So  dear,  I  could  not  choose  but  hear: 
I  saw  again  her  pall  and  bier  — 

The  funeral  pomp  of  coach  and  hearse 
I  saw  the  black  train  slow  disperse, 
And  I  was  left  alone,  to    nurse 

The  wound  of  Azrael's  fatal  knife, 
For  she  that  was  the  life  of  life  — 
My  lily  bride,  now  sainted  wife, — 

Had  withered.     Ere  I  spake,  he  said  : 
"  I  saw  thee  clinging  to  the  dead, 
I  saw  thee  pillow  her  cold  head 


THE   SPECTRAL   VISITANT. 


Upon  thy  breast,  I  saw  thee  lay 
Thy  hand  upon  her  hands,  and  pray 
That  Death  might  snatch  ye  both  away, 

Nor  leave  one  back  to  pine  and  weep, 
And  love's  sad  vigils  vainly  keep  ! 
Hast  thou  forgotten  that  sweet  sleep  ?  " 

I  answered  slow  with  stifled  breath  : 
"  I  prayed,  but  not  alone  for  death, 
I  prayed  in  anguish-wakened  faith 

That  death  is  but  the  open  door 
That  leads  to  life  forevermore 
With  her  upon  some  fairer  shore." 


70 


THE    SPECTRAL   VISITANT. 


"A  cheat,"  he  answered  ;  "who  can  tell? 
Perchance  it  is  for  mortals  well 
That  faith  and  hope  have  such  a  spell 

To  rob  the  grave  of  half  its  sting! 
But  why  not  at  a  single  spring, 
Make  proof  of  an  uncertain  thing? 

Here's  hemlock,  here's  distilled  blood 

Of  slumberous   poppies,   that  have    stood, 

A  gloomy  Stygian  sisterhood. 

Drink,  and  make  proof  of   the  unseen! 

Thou  art  a  scientist,  I  ween, 

And  many  a  curious  thing  hast  seen, 


THE   SPECTRAL   VISITANT. 


But  one  thou  hast  not,  it  is  Death. 
O'erleap  the  chasm!  Prove  thy  faith, 
If  it  be  truly  what  it  saith  ! 

Clasp  thy  loved  wife  within  thine  arms  I 
Ha  !  Faith  is  weak  !   Immortal  charms 
Woo  not  thy  soul  from  Earth's  alarms  ! 

Thou  hast  no  mighty  faith  to  hold 
Thy  sinking  spirits  from  the  cold 
Dark  dread  of  rotting  into  mold  ! 

Cheat  not  thyself  and  me  with  words. 
Faith's  idle  blandishment  affords 
No  lasting  comfort,  nor  accords 


72 


THE   SPECTRAL   VISITANT. 


The  grave  one  luring  attribute  ! 
Speak  not  of  life  beyond  !   Be  mute 
Till  man  is  somewhat  more  than  brute  ! 


If  life  have  some  excuse  to  be, 
'Tis  here  thou  findest  it,  for  see, 
Thy  last  gasp  is  the  end  of   thee  ! " 

Not  wholly  robbed  of  faith,  I  cried : 
"  I  cannot  know  what  may  betide, 
When  life  drifts  to  the  other  side  ; 

I  only  know  that  Love  dreams  on, 
And  clasps  the  spirit  that  is  gone. 
I  cannot  doubt  the  morrow's  dawn, 


73 


THE   SPECTRAL   VISITANT. 


Though  life's  dark  night  had  not  a  star; 
But  waiving  faith  that  dreams  afar 
Beyond  Earth's  latest  sunset  bar, 

I'll  meet  thee  in  thy  chosen  list, 
And  crush  thee,  gloomy  agonist, 
Though  that  best  armor  I  have  missed: 

If  Death  were  lord  of  Life  instead, 
This  Earth  were  wholly  dark  and  dead, 
A  huge,  wild,  granite  earthquake-bed, 

Storm-beaten,  ocean-lashed,  and  bare, 

With  arid  zones  of  parching  air, 

And  ice-fields  in  the  moon's  cold  glare, 


74 


THE    SPECTRAL   VISITANT. 


With  ne'er  a  leaf,  and  ne'er  a  wing, 
To  mark  the  dawning  of  the  spring, 
And  fill  green  woods  with  twittering  !  ' 

"Ay  !   Life  is  destined,  if  you  will, 

But  may  be  either  good  or  ill," 

He  urged.     I  answered  warmlier  still, 

The  hot  blood  beating  in  my  breast : 
"  Of  good  or  ill,  what  is  the  test? 
Is  pleasure  evermore  the  best? 

To  be  at-one  with  the  world's  life, 
A-striving  with  the  general  strife, 
Though  every  hour  with  pain  were  rife, 


75 


THE    SPECTRAL   VISITANT. 


Is  best  !     I  dare  not  break  the  vase 
God  fashioned  with  such  subtle  grace, 
Till  he  remove  it  from  its  place. 

My  answer,  Ghost,  is  not  complete 
With  logic,  but  each  strong  pulse-beat 
Of  dawning  life  makes  thee  retreat, 

And  though  my  lips  were  wholly  dumb, 
Though  nerves  and  brain  were  cold  and  numb, 
An  answer  from  the  heart  would  come  !  " 

"  Live  on  and  suffer  !     I  have  done. 
The  heart  by  logic  ne'er  was  won, 
Hug  life  as  when  it  first  begun. 


THE    SPECTRAL    VISITANT. 


But  cease  from  striving,  learn  to  drift 

As  life's  low  surges  sink  and  lift, 

As  time's  light  breezes  change  and  shift  !  " 

He  said.      "  Not  thus  I  bid  adieu  ! 
The  Heart's  still  voice  is  not  less  true 
Than  logic's  ergo.     Hear  me  through  ! 

Instinct  is  more  than  knowledge  still, 
And  feeling  is  the  birth  of  will: 
I'll  reck  its  rede  through  good  or  ill. 

It  whispers  'till  my  pulses  dance  ; 
Life  is  not  dullard  sufferance, 
But  daily  struggling  to  advance. 


77 


THE   SPECTRAL   VISITANT. 


Life  and  more  life  it  seems  to  me 

The  whole  world  sings.     The  symphony 

Dispels  my  self-wrought  misery. 

Strife  and  more  strife,  it  seems  to  sing, 

For  life  is  striving,     Everything, 

By  striving,  bursts  to  leaf  and  wing  ! " 

Athwart  my  windows  beat  the  dawn. 
I  saw  her  foot-prints  on  the  lawn, — 
My  Spectral  Visitant  was  gone ! 


Jesus  of  flazaretl?. 


Warder   of  forgotten  histories, 
Oblivion,  bring  forth  thy  hidden  scrolls* 
Restore  to  Memory  thy  treasured  lore, 
The  record  of  his  birth  and  life  and  death, 
Else  shall  we  miss  the  golden  grains  of  truth 
While  winnowing  the  chaff  of  fables  vain. 
Ye  crude  Evangels,  told  from  lip  to  lip, 
Repeated  oft  by  ignorant  peasantry 
Who  lifted  marvel  into  miracle 
Till  crystallized  into  Grecian  rolls 
Obscure,  —  a  century's   gathered  wreck  and 
drift,  — 

Though  full  of  error,  yet  with  nascent  faith 
Illumed,  creep  from  monastic  dust  and  death, 
Proclaim  your  faithlessness,  and  undeceive 
The  myriads  that  rest  their  faith  in  myth 
Rather  than  trust  the  great  strong  soul  of  man! 
79 


JESUS    OF    NAZARETH. 


Ye  hills  by  pilgrims  of  the  mighty   West 
Long  sought,  restore  the  impress  of  his  feet 
That  we  may  thread  his  mazed  ministries, 
Nor  heed  the  tales  of  credulous  fabulists 
Or  fond  traditions  of  evangelists  ! 
Call  from  sepulchral  dust  the  multitudes 
That  followed  the  great  Thaumaturge's  steps, 
Content  to  eat  his  bread  and  drink  his  wine 
For  the  small  pain  of  hearkening  his  words  ! 
Call  forth  the  lazar  throngs,  the  halt,  the  blind, 
The  congregate  deformities  of  Earth, — 
Whose  misereres  sought  him  in  the  fields 
And  by  the  gates,  and  thronged  porticoes 
Of  synagogues  and  temples, —  careless  all 
For  piety,  if  but  their  ills  were  cured  ! 
Restore  his  world,  that  flagging  human  faith 
Be  tasked  no  farther  with  those  marvels  old 
Than  with  the  spirit  of  our  own  vast  age 
Where  sense  and  reason  —  wonted  guides  — 
are  hers  ! 

80 


JESUS    OF    NAZARETH. 


Might  we  but  share  his  serving,  we  would  list 
His  words   and  wonders   with  the  toil-worn 

Twelve, 

Now  tarrying  at  Cana's  nuptial  feast, 
And  now  by  Sychar's  ancient  well  athirst 
Where  he  for  one  cool  draught  of  that  deep 

font 
Gave  her  that  drew  it,  —  though  of   hated 

race, — 

The  priceless  draught  of  living  water,  Hope  ; 
Now  wandering  by  fair  Genessarett, — 
His    refuge   from    the    Doctors'    murderous 

hate 

When  thrust  with  menace  from   the  syna 
gogue,— 
Or  plucking    ears    from    the    white   harvest 

fields 

Amid  the  taunts  of  Sabbatarian  priests 
Whose  pharisaic  pride  loved  much  to  boast 
Of  righteous  zeal  for  the  Mosaic  texts  ; 
81 


JESUS    OF    NAZARETH. 


Now  entering  the  temple  —  newly  purged 
Of  sacrificial  markets  —  where  he  taught 
Unwelcome  truth,  —  by  men  called  heresy 
When  winged  first  from  some  high  search 
ing  mind, — 

Defying  openly  the  hierarchs, 
But  winning  empire  with  the  weak  oppressed: 
Now  seeking  peace  in  far  Zidonia 
From  priestly  machinations  born  of  hate, 
Then  turning  back  to  his  unfinished  task 
That  grew  to  tragedy  with  each  swift  day, 
From  olive-branched  triumph  and  acclaim, 
Through  dark  Gethsemane  and  broken  faith, 
To  the  great  consummation,  guiltless  death! 

And  thus  sojourning  long,  O  Paraklete, 
O  spirit  of  mighty  Manhood,  thou  Unknown, 
From  whom  our  loftiest  aims  and  hopes  are 

drawn, 

To    whom  we  stretch   our   thought-creating 
souls, 

82 


JESUS    OF    NAZARETH. 


When  yearning  for  ideal  Grace  and  Truth, 
We  fain  would  beg  of  thee — nor  beg  in  vain — 
A  mind  to  apprehend  his  manly  mind, 
A  soul  to  apprehend  his  passionate  soul, 
To    know    and    feel    what    he    must    know 

and  feel 

Amid  the  halt  and  blind  and  ignorant 
And  blinder  guilds  of  death  and  cults  of  sin ! 

Oh  for  one  impulse  of  divinest  love 
To  deify  one  instant  of  this  life 
And  lift  our  dullard  souls  to  newer  heights ! 
Or,  if  thy  gifts,  denied  to  meaner  souls, 
Are  only  won  by  asking  lavishly, 
Grant  us  ecstatic  days  of  deity 
And  whole  triumphant  years  of  perfectness  ! 

Three  years  of  such  a  life,  though  scorned 

of  men 

And  shut  within  the  bounds  of  one  weak  state, 
Today  could  pierce  the  bubble  of  the  creeds, 
And  drive  the  daily  lie  from  pious  lips, 
83 


JESUS    OF    NAZARETH. 


And  strike  the  chains    from    man's    all-con 
quering  mind 

Till  life  and  love  and  truth  were  all  in  all, 
And  forward  through  the  ages  urge  the  tide 
Of  larger  manhood  till  the  frailest  child 
Of  toil  and  sorrow  should  excel  the  gods 
That  our  poor  thoughts  have    fashioned  and 

enshrined. 

Then  marvel  not  that  Judah's  carpenter 
So  builded  in  the  souls  of  lesser  men 
That  twice  ten  centuries  called  him  very  God. 
Yet  was  he  man,    and    son    of    man,   nor 

dared 

In  all  his  royal  vision  overstep 
His  heritage  of  mortal  flesh  or  claim 
One  item  of  pure  deity.     He  felt 
As  man  must   feel,    in  life's    strait    circum 
stance 

Of  daily  need  and  toil  and  toil's  reward 
With  pain  secured.  He  knew  temptation's  lure 
84 


JESUS    OF   NAZARETH. 


Disguised  as  gilded  good,   and  virtue's  bane 
To  be  misunderstood,  and  bitter  grief, 
And  over  all  compassion  and  strong  faith. 
No  God  with  heaven-descended  vital  thought 
Could  reach  the  human  soul  through  sympa 
thies 

As  he,  the  Man  among  co-equal  men, 
Living  their  life  and  teaching  them  to  live 
With  daily  reverence  for  the  highest  Good 
And  daily  struggles  for  the  Perfectness. 

And  if  at  times  in  mystic  mood  he  chose 
The  loftier  title,  Son  of  God,  he  claimed 
But  loftier  right,  for  he  was  son  of  God 
By  right  of  manhood's  dignity  and  height, 
Not  deity  by  unigeniture 
Of  Infinite  God,  with  whom  can  be  no  need 
Of  geniture —  Mortality's  fair  gift 
For  conquering  death,  in  bearing  newer  forms 
In  endless  swift  succession,  and,  in  joy, 
Snatching  immortal  life  from  out  the  dust ;  — 

85 


JESUS   OF   NAZARETH. 


Nor  with  ambitious  majesty  and  pride 
He  chose  exalted  names,  but  that  all  men 
Through  living  blameless  in  the  strength  of 

truth 

And  virtue,  faithful  through  extremest   woe, 
Might  share  his  heritage  and  dignities, 
All  sons  of  God,  all  equal,  and  none  Lord. 

He  was  a  mystic  and  enthusiast 
Whose  words,  if  misinterpreted,  could    make 
A  bigot's  iron   creed  and  stifle  thought 
By  chaining  reason,  or  could  nourish  fat 
The  dreaded  monsters  of  fanatic  zeal 
And  self-complacent  jesulatria; 
Whose  life,  if  emulated,  would  reread 
His  words  in  generous  faith  and  comprehend 
The  vital  truth  within  the  letter's  death. 

He  was  unlettered  in  an  age  unlearned. 

He  never  weighed  the  sun  with  curious  zeal, 

Nor  traced  the  planets  in  their  mighty    orbs 

Disclosing  secrets  with  the  prism   and   lens, 

86 


JESUS    OF    NAZARETH. 


Nor  read  the  message  of  the  buried  rocks 

In  relics  of  archaic  life  exhumed, 

Nor  sought  the  gelid  seas  for  either  pole 

Or  routes  to  India  or  far  Cathay, 

Nor  pierced  the  tropic  jungles  hot  and  dank, 

For  unknown  forms  of  insect,  bird  and  beast; 

Nor  climbed  the  mountains  to  their  snowy 

crests 
To  pluck  rare  plants  from   out    their   frozen 

home, 

Nor,  housed  within  commodious  academes, 
Traced  geometric  angles,  points  and  curves, 
Or  played  with  numbers  or  with  foreign 

tongues, 

Careless  to  tread  through  all  the  curious  maze 
That  men  must  pass  to  knowledge.  He  but 

sought 

Essential  knowledge  which  is  knowing   Self, 
Nor  needed  letters  for  the  Father's  task  ; 
For  whoso,  sentient-souled,  by  inward  search, 
87 


JESUS    OF    NAZARETH. 


Attends  its  passions  and  perpetual  dreams, 
In  solitude  and  in  society, 
In  lowliest  circumstance  of  poverty 
O'er-roofed  with  rudest  thatch  or  roofless  all, 
In  highest  station  and  luxurious   ease 
Immured  in  palaces  on  stable  thrones, 
Hath  largest  wisdom  though  unlettered  still, 
Andofttimes    largest    knowledge  deigns   to 

dwell 
With  open  minds  that  read,  not  scrolls,    but 

men. 

Well  might  he  say  that  greatest  truths  are  hid 
From  bookish  saintliness  but  shown  to  babes. 

And,  knowing  Self,  he  knew  the  dignity 
Of  Soul,  and  loved  it  wheresoe'er  it  dwelt, 
With  more  of  honor  where  it  sat  enthroned 
And  swayed  a  regal  scepter  o'er  the  man, 
With  more  of  pity  where  it  pined  for  life 
Amid  the  ruins  of  its  fallen  fanes, — 
Imbruted  man,  —  man's  worst  antithesis. 
88 


JESUS   OF    NAZARETH. 


He  loved,  nor  can  the  fabled  burning  heart 
Tell    how    he    loved.      No    household    loves 

were  his 

To  weave  Arachne's  webs  about  his  feet 
And    take    him    in    the    snare   of  prattling 

tongues 

And  childish  sweet  embracings.     No  caress 
Dearer  than  Mary's  earliest  kiss  he  knew, 
Forsaking  lesser  for  the  larger  love, 
Not  as  in  scorn  of  woman's  loveliness, 
Not  in  ascetic  fear  to  touch  her  lips 
As  if  with  serpent's   venom  overspread, 
But,  consecrated  to  a  martyr's  task 
Three  summers  long,  ease  and  soft  nuptial  joys 
Though  pure  as  Heaven  or  the    thoughts   of 

God, 

Less  charmed  him  than  the  road  to  Golgotha. 
But  woman's  priceless  love  was  not  withheld. 
Behold  her  sitting  at  his  feet,  devout, 
Or  low,  anointing  them  with  spikenard  rare. 
89 


JESUS    OF    NAZARETH. 


He  loved,  and  Love  allied  with  Truth  is 

power. 
And  thus  he  spake    the  mightiest  burning 

words  — 

Words  winged  like  seraphs  with  beatitudes, 
But  each  beatitude  the  recompense 
Of  highest  living —  Life's  supremest  good. 
From  that  thalassian  mountain-side  obscure, 
Where  the  astonished  multitude  sat  down, 
Hearken  the  echo  of  the  sweetest  words 
That  through  the  ages  fell  on  human  ear, 
And,  in  their  Benedictus,  lose  thyself 
To  find  a  selfhood  incorrupt  and  high 
Whose  every  throb  may  say  to  thy  strong 

soul ; 
"Blessed,   thrice  blessed,   art    thou,  son  of 

God !  " 
No   human   heart  that  beats  has  grown  so 

weak, 

No  human  soul  that  feels  is  sunk  so  low, 
90 


JESUS    OF    NAZARETH. 


But  may  with  hope  sublime  and  during  faith 
Prove  worthy  sonship  with  the  living  God. 
"  Love    God,    Love    man ! "     This    was    his 

message  clear. 

What  more  he  taught  is  but  particular. 
For  this   he   suffered.     Can    the    Roman 

cross 

With  all  its  imagery  of  agony 
Tell  how  he  suffered  ?  His  too  sensitive  heart 
That  wept  for  Salem  in  her  desolate  walls 
As  for  a  friend  departed,  that  moaned  out 
Its  anguish  at  the  tomb  of  love,  that  sank 
Crushed  to  Gethsemane's  lone  midnight  earth 
With  passion  heavier  than  death,  betrayed 
By  one  he  trusted,  O  to  wear  the  purple 
And  crown  acanthus  and  be  struck  with  hands 
And  mocked  with   taunting  words  and   spit 

upon  ! 
What  need  of  Roman  arms  to  break  such 

hearts  ? 


JESUS    OF    NAZAT.ETH. 


Betrayal  deadlier  than  Roman  arms 
Extinguished  in  foul  marks  of  guilt  and  shame 
The  sweetest  human  life  of  all  that  age, 
Its  task  half  finished  or  yet  unconceived. 
And  yet,    to  die    and  leave    the   unfinished 

scheme 
To  men  who  fled  from    Roman   spears  a-nd 

staves, 

Was  easier  than  to  yield  convictions  strong. 
He  chose  to  die,  Truth's  protomartyr  grand, 
Loved,  hated,  wept  for,  cursed,  but  ne'er 

forgot. 
He  died,  and   loving   hands  pressed  down 

those  lids 

To  hide  the  lusterless  dead  eyes  that  once 
Beamed  love  divinely  sweet ;  strong,  faithful 

arms 
Bore  the  deep  wounded  corse  from  the  dread 

cross, 

And  laid  it  gently  in  its  sepulcher  ; 
92 


JESUS   OF    NAZARETH. 


And  when  the  stone  that  sealed  its  narrow  cell 
Closed  o'er  his   dust,   Despair  and  Anguish 

cried  ; 
"  Never !    Never  !     Never  !  "     Even    Hope, 

the  while, 

Her  song  of  immortality  forgot, 
And  Faith  forgot  that  God  is  over  all. 
A  generation  died,  and  with  it  died 
The  comrades  of  his  toils  and  thoughts  and 

loves. 

Alone  survived  the  legends  of  his  life, 
Grown  as  the  legend  grows  in  human  mouths 
That  glorify  by  myth  and  wondrous  tale 
Those  whose  broad  minds,   sweet    souls    and 

simple  loves 

Uptower  above  the  level  of  their  age  — 
The  Thaumaturges  —  the  Misunderstood  — 
The  Deified,  because  misunderstood  ! 
What  Hero  was  of  human  mould  ?     For  lo  ! 
A  virgin  sweet  immaculate,  whom  God 
93 


JESUS    OF    NAZARETH. 


Impregned,  hath  born  a  God.     So  runs  the 

'    tale. 

He  lives  and  dies  a  God.     The  sepulcher 
Despite  rock-ribbed  eternal  silences 
Bursts  open  at  his  touch  divine.     Behold 
"  Surrexit  "  graven  deep  on  every  tomb 
Of  hero  dust !     The  Empyrean  courts, 
By  right  divine,  are  his.  And  circling  clouds — 
A  gorgeous  chariot  —  bear  him  to  his  throne. 

Pause,  blind  enthusiast  !  on  mortal  man, 
On  vital  dust  heap  not  mistaken  praise  ! 
Is  truth  incredible  from  human  lips  ? 
Is  man  so  sunk  that  gods  alone  can  live 
Exalted  lives  and  die  heroic  deaths  ? 
Can  apotheoses  exalt  the  soul 
That  death  between  the  thieves  could  never 

shame  ? 

Thank  God  devoutly  this  was  but  a  man 
And  what  once  man  hath  done  man  yet  can  do! 
Take  noble  courage  from  a  simple  life 
94 


JESUS    OF   NAZARETH. 


Beset  with  hatred,  yet  grown  rich  in  love. 
Learn  this  high  thought  :    so  high  as   mind 

can  aim, 

So  high  as  soul  her  grand  ideal  marks, 
Thus  high  can  human  deeds  at  length  ascend, 
Thus  much  can  human  hands  and  lips  achieve. 
O  Zeal  !  why  wert  thou  in  this  old  blind 

world 

Enkindled  —  brand  of  Hell  —  to  devastate 
The  beautiful  and  lovely  with  the  sweep 
Of  thy  wild  besom  ?     Zeal,  the  bigot's  plea, 
Occasion  and  excuse  of  many  crimes  ! 
Alas  !  that  zeal  such  fatal  blunders  made  ! 
Else  were  the  tale  of  Christian  centuries 
An  epos  of  sublimest  deeds  and  thoughts 
And  not  the  lurid  history  of  fiends, 
Who    lurked  behind   the  sacred    cross,    or, 

gowned 
And  stoled,  swung   censers,  or  with  tedious 

pomp 

95 


JESUS    OF    NAZARETH. 


Droned  through  their  fixed  sonorous  rituals. 

But  ages  fled.     The  young  Ekklesia, 
A  timid  band  by  Rome's  hard  hand  oppressed, 
Grew  by  oppression  till  she  lorded  Rome 
And  ruled.     With  what  a  sacrifice  !    She  lost 
All  that  Mount  Olivet  and  Calvary 
Bequeathed  of  love  and  faith  and  tenderness 
And  manly  courage  to  defend  the  truth. 
She  won  imperialism  and  heathen  rites 
And  heathen  dogma  and  philosophy. 
Jesus,  the  Brother  and  familiar  Friend 
The  Helper  meek,  and  sweet  Didaskalos, 
Was  thrust  idolatrously  in  a  niche 
And  named  a  God.     A  million  souls    forgot 
The  mighty  God  unseen  who  rules  the  world 
And  played  with  riddles  of  triunity. 
Seal,  Clio,  fast  within  thine  awful  scroll 
This  tale,  lest  men  all  unawares  should  learn 
How  grew  this  jesulatrian  fetichism, 
This  spirit-dwarfing  tyrannous  creed-curse, 
96 


JESUS    OF    NAZARETH. 


And,  undeceived,  in  their  hot    wrath   should 

tear 
Their  fetters,  and    in  freedom's   new-found 

strength 
Iconoclastic,  smite  the  idol  down! 

Great  God,  have  mercy  on  this    old    blind 

world  ! 

And  Thou,  sweet  Soul  of  Galilee,  if   Thou 
In  some  serene  blue  sphere    of    heaven    be- 

holdest 

The  millions  bending  to  thy  imaged  wounds, 
And  hearest  the  passionate  prayers  sent    up 

to  Thee, 

And  the  full-throated  Allelujas  flung 
From  wine-kissed  lips  to  honor  Thee  as  God, 
How  must  Thy  brow  and    cheeks   in    anger 

burn 

To  hear  the  endless  roll  of  blasphemy! 
To  know  Thy  ministry  all,  all  in  vain, 
How  must  thy  heart  with   indignation    swell 
97 


JF.SUS    OF    NAZARETH. 


And  every  pulse  throb  out  its  bitter  wrath  ! 
Nay,  that  were    less   than    human.     Thou 

wouldst  look 

With  tears  of  pity  and  compassion  miid 
From  this,  Thy  daily  crucifixion,  up 
To  the  Eternal  God,  and  cry  again 
Pathetic  sweet  Thy  latest  prayer  ;  "  Father, 
Forgive  them,  for  they  know  not   what    they 

do!" 


98 


/Ity 


l\7f  Y  creed  ?  my  creed,  you  ask  ?  And  is  a 
/         creed 

The  living  bread  wherewith  to  stay  the  plague 
Of  hunger  in  a  man  ?  I  have  no  creed, — 
For  havings  must  be  less  than  havers  are  ! — 
I  am  my  creed, —  and  when  the  last  pulse-beat 
Makes  period  to  the  struggle  of  my  life, 
Behold  the  best  confession  in  the  deed  ! 
A  sketch,  a  skeleton,  but  still  the  best, 
For  words  are  clanging  empty  earthen  jars 
That  take  in  wine  or  poison  as  you  will. 
I  am  my  creed, —  naught  less  than  my  whole 

self,— 

My  strivings,  had  they  fair  fruition  borne, 
My  dreams  for  others'  weal,  had  all  come  true, 

99 


MY  CREED. 


My  hopes  for  after  times,  were  all  fulfilled, 
My  aspirations  looking  from  the  top 
Of  mounts  unclimbed  by  living  men,  all  these 
My  creed,  and  yet  not  half  the  creed  I  mean  ? 

Credo !  credo !  fill    in  the    rest, 

O  Priest, 

And  damn  or  save  by  answered   nay  or  yea, 
And  I'm  your  slave,  and  run  at  your  behest, 
A  fair  deserving  ass,  but  not  a  man: 
But  let  me  fill  the  blanks    with    deeds,    not 

words, — 

There  never  stood  a  kinglier  man  of  men, 
None  larger-hearted  in  the  battle's  brunt ! 

My  hands  into  the  hoary  sea  I  dip 
To  clutch  a  handful  of  its  mystery. 
In  vain  !  The  brine  slips  back  into  the  deep ! 
So  words  are  only  wet  with  mystery 
And  hold  no  part  of  the  eternal  Truth. 

A  form  of  words  ?  A  fossil  in  the  drift, 
A  shell  commodious  for  a  slender  life, 


MY    CREED. 


Dead  words  dug  up  ?  And    living    words    so 

vain  ? 

Go,  leave  me,  Priest,  a  lie  from  heedless  lips 
Can  damn  as  swiftly  as  the  truth  can  save. 
I  know  too  little  to  affirm  so  much. 

Close  up  the  Book,  and  clasp  its  ponderous 

lids! 

'Tis  all  too  dead  !     Go,  lay  it  in  a  crypt ! 
Conceal  it  from  the  eyes  of  living  men, 
Lest  its  too  human  gods  be  proven  false, 
And  its  too  little  heavens  be  burst  in  twain, 
And  its  too  withered   earth   grow    green 

with  hope, 

And  its  too  brutal  man  be  found  more  kind, 
And  its  too  trivial  law  be  all  outgrown, 
The  oak  heeds  not  the    burr   that    once    en 
cased 

The  germ  of  root  and  trunk  and  myriad  leaf. 
So  I  can  not  re-enter  that  cramped  cell 
That  housed  and  fed  the  hopes  of  ages  gone. 
101 


MY    CREED. 


I  bask  in  sunshine  of  a  larger  world 
And  wrestle  with  the    storms  of    times    un 
born  ! 

I  am  the  touchstone  of  the  living  Truth, 
And  patriarch  and  prophet  are  to  me 
But  phantoms  and  elohim  of  the  dead. 
No  man  stands  vicar  twixt  the  world  and  me, 
Though  scores  of  centuries  have    rolled    be 
tween 
And  hung  a  nimbus  round  his  rugged  brow. 

The  Soul  is  little,  but  the  greatest  thing 
That  had  its  birth  in  cosmic  throes.     I  stand 
With  open  avenues  of  sense,  insphered, 
Encircled  by  the  ranked  infinities 
Of  Time  and  Space,  of  Matter,   Force  and 

Law, 

And  ranked  infinitesimals  beneath 
My  ken  as  far  as  infinite  transcends. 
Conceivable  to  inconceivable 
With  swift  ascent  from  the  soul's  radiant 
102 


MY    CREED. 


Flies  thought  and  finds  no  resting-place  secure. 
Can  Faith  set  pillars  on  the  Absolute 
And  rear  aloft  their  mighty  capitals 
Into  the  Relative  ?     The  Mystery 
O'er-topples  them  into  the  void  abyss 
Unsearchable,  and  Faith  lights  nearer  home 
On  symbols,  dreaming  that  her  pillars  stand. 
Is  there  a    guide    of    stronger    wing  ?     I  fly 
On  equal  wing  with  him  who  dares  the  most, 
And  yield  not  in  the  illimitable  Vast ! 

Bring  me  the  Book,  O  Priest !  Unclasp  the 

lids, 

And  I  will  test  it.     Look  you  !  here  is  gold, — 
A  grain  or  two  half    hid  in   bulky  dross, — 
A  gem  that  sparkles  in  a  waste  of  sand, — 
A  flower  blooming  in  a  wide  morass, — 
A  crumb  of  bread  lost  in  a  stinking  slime, — 
A  little  wine  to  scent  the  lingering  dregs,  — 
A  human  thing,  not  worse  than  other  books, 
Nor  better  than  the  age  that  gave  it  birth. 
103 


MY    CREED. 


I  take  the  good  and  cast  aside  the  dross 
Eclectic  !     Bring  the  baskets  !     Gather  up 
The  gods  and  devils,  the  cosmogonies, 
The   myths   and  tales  of  wonder-mongering 

scribes, 

The   dullard  chronicles  of  priests  and  kings, 
The  men  of  God's  own  heart  ungibbeted, 
The  axes  red  and  wet  with  sacrifice, 
The  stars,  the  crosses,  and  the  sepulchers  ! 
Preserve  the  fragments   of  my  meager  feast 
To  feed  your  starveling  followers  withal, 
Whose  taste  for  living  Truth  is  not  so  nice  ! 
Believe  in  God  !  Not  one  that  I  can  think, 
Nor  one  that  words  of  thine  can  name  me, 

Priest  ; 

Much  less  a  petty  tyrant  of  the  skies 
Born  in  the  shallow  brains  of  one  rude  clan 
And  throned  above  the  godlings  of  the  rest 
By  brutal  slaughter.  Men  have  made  their  gods 
In  their  own  image,  mingled  best  and  worst. 
104 


MY   CREED. 


You  cut  the  garment  of  the  Universe 
Too  small,  too  antic,  for  a  masquerade 
More  fit !    But  make  it  whole,  without  a  seam: 
I'll  wear  it,  wrap  it  round  my  little  life, 
Nor  ask  it  purple,  broidered  round  with  gold! 

The  All  is  not  negation.     Infinite  Yea, 
Than  utter  which  unworthily,  I'll  pluck 
My  tongue  away,  and  be  forever  mute, — 
A  boundless  Affirmation,  thou  and  I 
But  words,  O  Priest,  and  meaningless    until 
The  last  is  uttered.     Shall  we  guess  the  rest, 
And  swear  our  little  guess  is  all  in  all  ?  — • 
A  Harmony  whereof  the  simplest  theme 
Is  yet  unsung,  and  thou  and  I,  O  Priest, 
But  notes  at  random  flung,  discordant,  harsh. 
And  shall  we  guess  the  burden  of  the  theme, 
And  swear  that  we  have    learned    the    sym 
phony, 

Rehearsed  it  through  and  through  ?  Love  all 
thou  canst, 

105 


MY    CREED. 


Dream  all  thou  canst,  strive  all    them    canst, 

O  Man, 
And  when  the  heart  and  brain  and    soul  are 

full 

Of  thoughts  unutterable,  name  it  God, 
If  names  can  tangle  in  a  mesh  of  sound 
The  soul  of  that  transcendent  hour  !  For  me, 
Be  nameless,  thou  illimitable  All ! 

Accept  God's  word  ?  A  very  cunning  God, 
To  make  a  Book,  whose  every  trivial  text 
Can  damn  a  heretic  or  save  a  saint, 
And  yet,  chameleon-like,  take  on   the    shade 
Of  each  brand-new  expounder  !  Noble  work ! 
The  sheltering  rock  of  every  error  known  ! 
Curved  mirror  of  the  world  without  a  focus ! 
What  boots    it  if  a  god  inspire  the  tale, 
If  truth  must  filter  through  the  human  brains 
Of  barbarous  men,  whose  world  was  flat  and 

square, 

Poured  round  by  four  huge  rivers,  like  a  sea, 
1 06 


MY    CREED. 


Roofed  o'er  with  crystal,  set  on  pillars  four, 
With  sun  and  moon  and  stars  hung  out  for 

signs, 

A  huge  World-tabernacle  built  for  man, 
And  filled  with  demons,  a  brute  helpless  realm 
Devoid  of  order,  where  a  whim  was  law 
And  cause  confounded  with  supreme  caprice  ? 
But  cleanse  the  filters,    Priest  !  Make  sweet 

and  clean 

The  vessel  that  contains  the  Water  of  Life  ! 
Distil  and  redistil  with  chemic  skill 
Its  living  spirit,  lest  it  still  be  crude  ! 

Poor  groping   groveling    herd,  that    bring 

their  gifts 
To  gorge  thee,  Priest,  with  fatness  and  with 

wine, 
To  clothe    thee,    not  in  hodden    grey,    like 

theirs, 

But  purple  and    gold,    for   thy    poor    recom 
pense 

107 


MY   CREED. 


Of  prayer  and  wrestling  with  a  changeless  god, 
Who  never  heard  a  prayer  in  all  the  ages  ! 
I  pity  them,  so  blind  they  spurn  my   pity 
And  hug  their  blessed  chains  and  slavery, 
But  from  the  deepest  springs  of  being    flows 
My  pity,  gilded  Fraud,  for  thee,  whose  brain 
Can  catch    the   glimmer   of    the    whitening 

dawn, 
Who  know  the  Truth,   thou   Whited  Sepul- 

cher, 

Yet  feed  upon  their  misery,  and  grind 
Their  lives  between  the    mill-stones    of    thy 

gods! 

What  name  can  measure  thy  stupidity, 
Poor  dumb  vice-gerent  of  a  helpless  Ghost ! 
Or  else,  what  name  can    sum    the   enormity 
Of   thy  huge    crime,    thou    Vampire  of  the 

Night, 
Sucking  the  life-blood  from  their  nerveless 

limbs, 

108 


MY    CREED. 


While  fanning  them  to  sleep  with   hopes    of 

heaven  ! 
O   Nous!     O   mighty    Mind  !     O    Reason 

strong  ! 

When  shall  we  see  thy  glorious  avatar  ? 
When  shall  thy  light  illumine  this  dark  world 
And  beam   resplendent  from  each  upturned 

face 

That  spurns  its  serfdom  and  adores  thy  star  ? 
Yet  a  few  years !  The  patient  Age  toils  on, 
And  men  and  nations  pass  into  decay, 
But  Nous  keeps  record  of  his  constant  gains, 
And  broods  above  his  mighty  victories 
Imperishable  !     Then  at  length  shall  come 
A   noble    race,  large-brained,  warm-hearted, 

free, 

Whose  heritage  is  Truth  !     Thus  age  by  age 
The  bible  of  our  race  is  slowly  writ, 
Its  texts   inscribed  in   flame  and  blood   and 

tears. 

109 


MY   CREED. 


Each  age  inscribes  its  noblest  word  and  dies. 
The  next  outgrows  it  and  lets  fall  a  tear 
On  each  mistake  and  blots  it  from  the  page. 
God's  word  ?     Man's  rather  !     Conquests  of 

his  mind  ! 

What  tricks  the  thaumaturgic  fancy  plays 
Within  the  madhouse  of  the  mystic's  brain  ! 
O  Priest,  the  image  of  thy  risen  Lord 
Is  but  the  Ideal  of  expanding  Soul 
That  struggles  to  emancipate  from  pain 
The  writhing,  torturing   Real.       And    thy 

boast 

That  he  is  lord  of  this  last  mighty  age, 
And  Lord  of  lords  for  ages  yet  to  be, 
Is  but  an  epitaph, —  a  fiction  kind,  — 
The  baseless  tribute  of  a  blinded  zeal 
That  loves  to  gape  in  wonder  at  plain  things, 
And  wrap  them  in  a  shroud  of  mystery  ! 
Historic  Jesus,  good,  forgotten  man, 
Whose  ashes  rest  in  peace  in  Galilee, 
110 


MY    CREED. 


(O  fortunate  misfortune  !  )  lowly  born, 
Obscurely  living,  mild-eyed  Dreamer,  mad 
With  thy  celestial  vision,  fed  with  hopes 
Of    hopeless    conquest,    rise   from   out    the 

obscure, 
And  open  those  blind  eyes  which  see    not 

thee  ! 

Nay,  rise  not  from  obscure  and  dusty  sleep 
To   wake    them   from  their  gilded    dream  ! 

For  lo  ! 

Thy  slender  genius  is  begodded  now  ! 
Thy  name  enthroned  above  the  loftiest, 
And  millions  worship  their  late-formed  Ideal, 
And  name  it  thee  !     O  manifold  vast  Life, 
Expansive  Soul  of  man,  why  worship  names 
Whose  bearers'  best  was  but  a  slender  brook 
To  our  broad  Niles  of  harvest-bearing  thought? 

O  Man,  thou  mighty  Herakles,  awake, 
Tear  from  thy  quivering  flesh  the    Nessus 

shirt 

in 


MY    CREED. 


Whose  venom  poisons  thee  at  every  pore  ! 
Hew  down  the  deadly  Hydra  of  misfaith, 
And  in  his  blood  baptize  thy  wounded  limbs 
Till  they  are  sheathed  in  horn,  a  firm  defense 
Against  the  shafts  of  scorn  and  strokes   of 

hate 

Aimed  by  the  blind  old  giant,  Prejudice ! 
Go,  leave  me,  Priest,  thy  proffered  bread 

and  wine 

Is  bitterness  of  gall  upon  my  tongue 
And  stench  within  my  nostrils,  as  of  blood 
On  sodden  fields  of  death, —  too  small  a  price 
To  pay  for  kneeling  to  the  lifted  Host  ! 
I  am  a  living  god  ;  my  words  are  Life, 
And  Life  abundant  in  the  age  to  come 
Will    cast    the    burden    of    thy    corpse-like 

weight 

From  off  the  manly  shoulders  of  our  race 
And  free  it  from  the  pother  of  thy  Gods  ! 


112 


Dust 


s' 


When  Life's  subtle  chemistry 

Loses  its  power, 
And  in  Death's  triumph 
My  dust  is  but  dust 

What  destiny  ? 


HALL  it  feed  a  magnificent  pine 

In  centennial  woods, 
Striving  upward  from  gloom  and  darkness, 
Mounting  straight  to  the  clear  blue  skies, 

But  pining  and  sighing 
For  heights  it  can  never  reach  ? 
I  have  been  like  a  pine 

In  forest  gloom, 

Pining  and  sighing  for  far  blue  skies 
And  the  unattainable  heights. 

Yet  this  is  Life  ! 


MY    DUST. 


Shall  it  feed  a  giant  oak 

And  stand  alone, 

Struggling  with  Summer's  stormwind 
And  grappling  the  thunderbolt, 

Or  gnarled  and  bare 
Burdened  with  Winter's  snow  ? 
I  have  been  like  an  oak, 

I  have  stood  alone 

With  the  stormwind  and  thunderbolt 
And  the  cold  cold  snows. 

And  this  is  Life  ! 


114 


MY   DUST. 


Shall  it  feed  the  maize  and  the  wheat 

Through  bounteous  moons, 
Waving  green  in  the  summer  breezes, 
Waving  gold  in  the  autumn  sun, 

Yielding  bread 

To  be  eaten  in  thanklessness  ? 
I  have  been  like  the  grain 

With  its  green  and  its  gold, 
Growing  and  ripening  till  Autumn's  sun 
That  a  hungering  world  might  eat. 

But  this  is  Life  ! 


MY   DUST. 


Shall  it  feed  a  perfect  flower, 

And  peep  from  the  grass, 
Basking  in  Summer's  sunshine, 
Drinking  the  cool  sweet  dew, 

And  be  plucked  by  Love 
To  lie  on  her  bosom  fair  ? 
I  have  been  like  a  flower 

Low  hid  in  the  grass. 
I  have  blossomed  in  sunshine  and  dew, 
And  lain  on  the  bosom  of  Love. 

And  this  is  Life  ! 

O  Death,  where  is  thy  sting ! 
Though  we  die  and  are  dust, 
We  shall  live  again, 
Somehow,  somewhere. 

There  is  no  death  ! 


116 


pra^mept  from 

/T)asc)ue. 


72TI  E  say  "  Thank   God  !  "  and  close    the 

ranked  pearls 

Behind  our  lips,  lest  echoes  sound  within 
And  wake  the  slumberer.     Oh  that  the  words 
Were  truly  meant  !     In  intellectual  cold 
We  know  ourselves  a  part  of  cosmic  law 
And  view  entranced  the  individual  yield 
His   good,   his  being,    that   the  whole   may 

thrive, 

And  cry  with  keen  approval,  like  a  god, 
"  Whatever  is,  is  right  !  "     But  when  the  flood 
Bursts  from  the  hills  and   lays   our  fields  ni 

ruin, 
When  earth-quake  whelms   our   city  with  its 

stroke, 

117 


FRAGMENT  FROM  UNPUBLISHED  MASQUE. 


When  pestilence  robs  us  of  friends  we  loved 
Or  blights  our  comeliness  with  hateful  scars, 
We  straight  complain,  and  curse  the  wof  ul  day 
That  gave  us  being.  Are  we  then  so  great 
That  God  must  be  a  fellow  in  our  play 
And  stop  his  spinning  worlds  to  humor  us  ? 

Shines  yonder  star  but  to  dispel  my  dark  ? 
Beams  yonder  orb  with  pale  reflected  light 
But  to   compel    my    thoughts    to    love    and 

peace  ? 

Stands  this  firm  rock  but  to  support  my  feet  ? 
Roars  yonder  Ocean  in  his  bellowing    caves 
But  to  delight  with  song  my  greedy  ear  ? 
Though  it  were  written  in  ten  thousand  books 
And  graven  deep  on  tables  of  hewn  stone 
That  all  this  world  of  worlds  was  built  for  man, 
I'd  hold  it  still  a  fable  born  of  pride. 
The  stars  are  bawbles.    Earth's  a  bawble.    All 
Are  gilded  bawbles.     Man's  a  bawble  too. 
And  why  make  bawbles  for  a  bawble's  sport? 
118 


FRAGMENT   FROM    UNPUBLISHED    MASQUE. 


I  know,  if  purpose  be  a  law  of  things, 
We  move  to  some  far-off  diviner  goal 
Than    seers    have    dreamed.     Men    are    but 

incidents, 

But  dust  disturbed  a  moment  in  the  march 
Of  the  Omnipotent, —  then  dust  again. 
If  Thy  divine  intent  doth  traverse  mine, 
I  thank  Thee,  knowing  all  is  right  with  Thee. 
I  know  ?  What  can  I    know  ?  What    is    it 

to  know? 

To  comprehend  a  thing  and  fix  its  bounds  ? 
Whose  limits  can  I  fix  but  mine  own  soul's  ? 
I  think.  I  am.  So  much,  no  more,  I  know. 
And  he  who  claims  a  larger  ken,  presumes, 
Transmutes  his  fancies  into  truth  !  O  Faith, 
O  truest  Truth,  but  hair's-breadth  wide  of 

knowledge, 
Thou    art    not   knowledge,  but    the    life    of 

life! 

And  yet  the  seed  of  error  lies  in  thee 
119 


FRAGMENT   FROM    UNPUBLISHED    MASQUE. 


That  springs  and  spreads  its  poisonous  Upas 

shade 

Above  Earth's  loveliest !    O  life  !    O  blight ! 
We  live  by  faith.     Then  faith  must  build  her 

eyrie 

On  juts  of  granite  truth  lit  by  the  sun. 
O  Thou,  the  Many-named,  matchless  Un 
known, 
What  Thy  pure  essence  is  none  knows  save 

Thee. 

To  me,  Thou  art  but  me  idealized, 
But  me  grown  mighty,  stripped  of  Space  and 

Time, 

I  made  Thee  in  my  image  glorified  ! 
And    Thou    unending    Cosmos  —  world    of 

worlds  — 
Art  me,    transformed,   unstripped    of    Space 

and  Time, 

I  made  Thee  what  thou  art  by  thinking  Thee  ! 

And  when  Night  calleth  unto  Night  sublime, 

120 


FRAGMENT   FROM    UNPUBLISHED    MASQUE. 


And  Day  doth  utter  knowledge  unto  Day, 
And  all  proclaim  Thy  glorious  handiwork 
My    soul,   not    they,  is  speaking  !  Thunder 
bolts 

That  rive  thy  ancient  cedars,  Lebanon, 
And  bellow  thousand-echoed  on  thy  hills 
Are  voiceless  till  I  give  them  human  speech ! 
Thy  flood,  old  Nilus,  is  but  fated  silt 
Till  I  have  named  theethe  Beneficent, 
The  Harvest-bearer  !  All  the  varied  speech 
Of  visible  Nature,  sung  by  bards  of  Old, 
All  revelations  of  the  Infinite  Will, 
Are     monologues  of    Soul,    that    hears    en 
tranced 

Her  own  pure  melody  resound  from  all. 
Aye  thus  have  sprung  the  sweetest  flowers 

of  faith, 

Half  choked  with  noxious  weeds,  indigenous 
To   this    same   fruitful   valley.     Weeds  and 
flowers  ! 

121 


FRAGMENT   FROM    UNPUBLISHED    MASQUE. 


The  task  of  ages  is  to  purge  Maremma 

Of   foulness,    and   choke    out    the    thrift  of 

weeds 

That  hide  the  lily's  whiteness   and    perfume  ! 
I  am  Thy  Gardener,  O  God,  self -set, 
To  trim  Thy  valley's  wild  luxuriance  ! 


122 


f\  Qordoi)  of  Sorbets. 


Christus. 

pure  heart  is  the  Christus.    Not  alone 
To  the  star-heralded  Judean  came 
The  Ineffable  Presence,  from  the  common 

shame 

Of  low  ideals  into  baseness  grown 
Lifting  to  boundless  faith  and  selflessness. 
It  comes,  the  immanent  God,  to  every  soul 
That  struggles  upward  to  the  perfect  goal 
Where  love  is  all  and  self  is   nothingness. 
With  time  the  old  faith  broadens  to  the  new. 

The  Christus  is  not  one  alone,  but  all 
Who  dare  in  loving  trust  to  struggle  through 
To  deep  soul-peace,  true  to  the  inward  call, 
Though  bearing  crosses  and  sharp  crowns  of 

thorn. 

In  such  as  these  the  Lord  Christ  is  reborn. 
123 


A    CORDON    OF    SONNETS. 


Truth,  The  Redemptor. 

is  the  soul's  redemptor.     Human 
blood 

Out  gushing  on  ten  thousand  Calvaries 
From  very  gods  in  deathless  agonies, 
Can  not  atone  by  its  empurpling  flood 
For  one  weak  fault  of  thine.     Evil  and  Good,- 
Intrinsic  deeds,  intrinsic  purposes, — 
Are  not  vicarious  things.     Purpureal  seas 
Can  not,  though  fed  from   streams  on   Holy 

Rood, 
Wash  white  another's  sin,  make  evil  good, 

Or  purchase  back  to  men  lost  purity. 
O  Man,  be  true  to  thine  own  soul's  self-hood, 
And  the  great   purchase-price   is   paid  for 

thee  ! 

The  bitter  wine-press  of  all  wrath  is  trod, 
And  thou  art  free  to  stand  before   thy   God. 
124 


A    CORDON    OF    SONNETS. 


Faith. 

eyes  of  God  !     O  fond  idolater, 
For  thee  and  me  his  eyes  are  thine  and 
mine  ! 

The  God  we  glibly  talk  of  and  define, 
We  chiseled  out.     The  great  Consolator 
Who  thrones  in  cloud  above  Earth's  misery, 
For  aught  we   know,  is   grand   but   empty 

fiction 
Of  souls  that   struggle  on   through   deep 

affliction, 

And  hope  till  faith  believes  the  revery  ! 
We  grope  in  night,  and  all  we  know  is  feeling. 
Yet,  Soul,  dream  on,  and   build   me  gods 

and  shrines 

And  hopes   that  warm  heart's-blood  incar 
nadines  ! 

Such  things  are  faith  to  live  by,  full  of  healing, 
And  toil  by  daily  in  the  direst  need, 
But  not  to  swear  by  in  an  iron  creed. 
125 


A    CORDON    OF    SONNETS. 


Atonement. 

TTTONEMENT   is    the    perfect    self-sur 
render 

Of  man's  finiteness  to  the  Infinite, 
No  passive  task,  but  manhood's   choicest 

right, 

In  consecrated  thought  and  toil  to  render 
Each  day  its  fulness  of  glad  services, 

And  with  diviner  instincts  move  the  will, 
Instilling  it  with  larger  ends,  until 
Its  meanest  purpose  with  His  thought  agrees. 
How  mean  the  fiction  of  the  Most  High  God 
In  his  lone  wrathful  majesty  enthroned, 
Demanding  justice  of  a  race  disowned, 
At  length  appeased  by  the  bleeding  feet  that 

trod, 

Spotless  of  guilt,  to  death  on  Calvary  ! 
Just  God,  forgive  the  age-long  blasphemy  ! 
126 


A    CORDON    OF   SONNETS. 


Resurrection. 

soul  is  prisoned  in    an    ancient 
thought 

As  in  a  tower  no  broader  than  the  age 
That  fashioned  it,  when,  purblind,  every  sage 
Looks  back  for  truth,  and  counts  the  future 

naught, 
When  scholars  pore    for   years  o'er   musty 

books 

To  find  the  fashion  and  the  form  of  truth, 
Fire-eyed,  majestic,  in  his  purple  youth, 
The  new  Age  thunders  godlike,  "  Fiat  Lux!  " 
The  star- winged  Bard  takes   up  the  trumpet 

blast  ;  — 
"  Beat    down  the  towers,   crumble  stone 

from  stone, 

Look  forward,  cast  aside  the  ancient  scroll, 
No  creed,  no  word  is  e'er  the  best  and  last ! " 
Within   the  walls  the   emancipating  tone 
I  hear,  and  then  'tis  Easter  in  my  soul ! 
127 


A    CORDON    OF    SONNETS. 


The  Everlasting  Life. 

KNOW  no  Blessed  Isles  beyond  the  main, 

Nor  Island  Valley  of  Avilion, 
Where  disembodied    spirits    still   live    on, 
Nor  change  nor  die  nor  suffer  any  pain  ! 
I  only  know  the  throbbings  of  my  brain 
Are  deathless  as  Apollo's  beams  of  Dawn. 
And  so  I  toil  till  his  light  is  withdrawn, 
Though  winds  of  Fate  blow  keen    with    hail 

and  rain. 

I  am  a  part  of  Cosmic  Force,  and  come 
From  Everlasting,  swayed  by  brazen    Doom. 
In  moulding  worlds  some  godlike  part  I  bear. 
I  know  not  wherefore,  yet  cannot  despair, 
Somehow,  somewhere,    in    deathless    cycles 

drawn, 
This  Life  that  lives  in  me  shall  still  live   on. 


128 


A    CORDON    OF    SONNETS. 


Transfiguration. 

spirit  grows  by  action.     Each  new 
thought, 

Each  purpose  held  in  reason's  firm  control, 
Each  deed  by  persevering  nobly  wrought, 
By  cumulative  force  upbuilds  the  soul. 
Daily  the  gradual  transformation  grows 
Out  of  dead  self  to  living  selflessness, 
Divesting  soul  of  her  deceptive  shows, 

And  clothing  her  in  simple  perfectness. 
And  thus  ascending  to  the  summit  grand, 
Old  comradeships  that  charmed  are    back 
ward  cast, 

Forsaken  as  the  higher  life  unfolds, 
And  as  great  thoughts  and  purposes  expand, 
In  purple  sunset  glow,  the  soul,  at  last, 
Herself,  transfigured  as  a  god,  beholds. 


129 


A    CORDOX   OF    SONNETS. 


Immortality. 

SAID  that  Life  is  but  the  tissue's  change, 
And   thought  but    subtle    chemistry  of 

brain, 
That    learned    doctors'    ponderous   tomes 

make  plain, 

Our  life  is  but  the  amoeba's  narrow  range 
From  death  through  life  to  death  again.    At 

length 

I  paused  before  an  open  grave,  the  goal 
Of  funeral  pomp  for  my  dead  love.  My  soul, 
Wringing     from      anguish      keen     exultant 

strength, 

Cried  ;  "Vain  are  all  man's  cold  philosophies, 
His  ponderous  tomes  are  monstrous  cruel  lies! 
Surreit  Amor!"     Aye  beside  the  tomb 
The  flower  of  Immortality  doth  bloom  ! 
Yet  would  my  soul  could  once  for  all  decide, 
If  Reason  faltered,  or  Affection  lied  ! 
130 


A   CORDON    OF    SONNETS. 


Calvary. 

1VTO  truth  is  won  save  on  the  tragic  crest 
/         Of    new-climbed    Calvaries,   where  the 

bawling  mob, 

Whose  wildered  hearts  with  nameless  ter 
ror  throb, 

Pursue  with  clubs  and  staves  who  dared  divest 
Their  world  of  one  more  shadow,  fearing  lest 
The  unwonted  light  should  make  the  uni 
verse 

Too  luminous  to  hold  a  God,  or  worse, 
Should  fill  men's  souls  with  generous  unrest 
Until  at  length  their  fathers'  ancient  faiths 
Grew  all  uncouth  though  builded  on   "  God- 

saitbs." 
For  each  new  syllable  of  Truth  we  learn 

A  prophet  dies,  and  all  along  the  line 
Of  its  triumphant  course,  the  martyrs  burn, 
But  Truth  is  God's  Light,  quenchless  and 
divine. 


A   CORDON   OF    SONNETS. 


Ekklesia. 

TJ  GOTHIC  sheep-fold,  and  a  well-fed  flock, 
God  snugly  housed  and  hedged  all  round 
about, 

And  all  the  ragged  waifs  of  Earth  pent  out 
Lest  their  rude  cries  of  sin  and  shame  should 

mock 

The  long-aisled  sanctity,  and  lo  !  a  Church ! 
Do  gothic  windows  shut  in  God,  or  keep 
In  cushioned  Sabbath  ease  his  chosen 

sheep  ? 

Go  rather  to  the  wilderness  and  search  ! 
God  is  as  wide  and  deep  as  heaven  and  earth, 

His  sheep-fold  is  the  teeming  universe, 
His  priests  and  prophets  those  high  souls  of 

worth 
That  lift  from  toiling  millions  their  hard 

curse 

Of  penury  and  sin.     When  understood 
The  Church  is  joyous  human  brotherhood. 
132 


A    CORDON    OF    SONNETS. 


Gethsemane. 

>TpO  watch  the  tragedy  of  life,  that  moves 
Upon  this  stage,  from  each  new  curtain- 
lift, 
Through    all    the    hurrying    scenes    that 

change  and  shift 

With  harrow  and  alack  of  wounded  loves, 
And  silken  culture  jostled  with  the  droves 
Of  unkempt  helplessness,  as  fall  the  dice 
Of  Fate,  Good  throttled   in   the  clutch  of 

Vice, — 
Cold     adders     coiling    round    the    nests    of 

doves, — 

Till  the  curtain  falls  upon  an  empty  stage, 
And  the   vain  show   is   done, —  to  sit  and 

watch, 

A  helpless  spectator  of  misery 
All  throbbing  with  divine  will  to  assuage 
The  endless  agony, —  to  wait  and  watch, — 
This  is  thy  midnight  hour,  Gethsemane  ! 


A   CORDON   OF   SONNETS. 


OJivet. 

Truth   shines    outward  and  not  in. 
The  whole 
Wide    vasty    space  of  star-sown    heavens 

can  wake 

No  thought,  no  sense,  nor  new  ideal  make 
Whose  germ  lay  not  potential  in  the  soul. 
The  soul"  is  but  infolded  Truth,  its  goal 
The  long  unfolding  for  its  own  high  sake, 
And  life's  rude  conflict  crowned  with  pain 

and  ache 

The  unclasping  of  the  folds  as  they  unroll  ! 
Thus,  age  by  age,  the  light  grows  more  serene 
And  white,  as  each  new  prophet's  torch  is  seen 
On  higher  Olivets,  and  the  firm  soul, 
With  radiant  face,  points  upward  to  the  goal, 
Excelsior  !  Ring  out  the  vanward  call 
Till,  beatific,  Truth  is  all  in  all  ! 

134 


A    CORDON    OF    SONNETS. 


The  ParakSete. 

5PZYHEN  dark  Despair,  in  some  lone  scep- 
^**     tic  hour, 

Breathes   on  the  Soul  his  noxious  atmo 

sphere, 
And  gulfs  of  night  are  yawning  deep  and 

near, 
And  storm-clouds  of  black  Death  and  Doom 

do  lower, 

And  all  the  lights  of  heaven  feel  the  power 
Of  blight  and  pestilence,  and  all  men  hear 
The  croak  of  ravens  ominous  and  clear, 
And  life  is  withered  ere  it  come  to  flower, 
O  mighty  Soul  of  Manhood,  Spirit  strong, 

O  Paraklete,  O  Light  unquenchable, 
Faith,    Hope    and     Love,     triumphant   over 

wrong, 

O  Graces  most  serene,  of  life  most  full, 
O  triune  Strength  of  Soul,  to  cheer  and  bless, 
Thou  wilt  not  leave  us  wholly  comfortless  ! 


A    CORDON    OF    SONNETS. 


Hypatia. 

IJYPATIA,  spotless  virgin,  vestal-pure, 
Stripped  of  her  chaste   Ionic  robe    of 

snow, 

Struck  down  by  monks  of  Nitria,  below 
The  image  of  the  pitying  Christ !     Adjure 
The  host  to  spare   her,    young    Philammon  ! 

Vain  ! 

The  black  mob  surge  upon  the  altar  rail 
To  glut  her  blood  !     One    wild  despairing 

wail 

Parts  her  white  lips.     Philosophy  is  slain  ! 
Orestes,  lo  !  thy  work  and  Cyril's  !     Thou 
With  unchaste  purpose  and  perfidious  vow 
Hast  lured  the  Teacher  from  her  Academe, 
To  grace  the  ruin  of  thy  fatal  dream 
Of  power.     Cyril  has  made  his  sacrifice 
Of  heathen   blood.     O    God,    was    this 
thy  price  ? 

136 


A    CORDON    OF    SONNETS. 


To  a  Serpent. 

i. 

POOR  timid  creature  gliding  through  the 
grass, 

A  tortuous  beam  of  purple-mailed  light, 
Fleeing  from  man  thy  old  arch-slanderer's 

sight 

To  seek  asylum  till  his  foot  shall  pass  ! 
I  hate  thee  not,  poor  harmless  friend,  like  men 
That  pause  in  serious  toil  to  mangle  thee, 
For  thou  hast  still  some  slight  divinity, 
Though  lurking  in  the  slime  of  this  dark  fen, 
Unwinged  and  songless,  in  perpetual  dew 
Of  foulness,  and  mayhap  in  Life's  great  plan 
Thou  hast  as  fair  a  use  as   they  that  span 
Bright  wings  and  hover  in  etherial  blue, 
Pulsating  clouds  of  vocal  deity 
To  burst  in  floods  of  rapturous  melody. 
i37 


A    CORDON    OF    SONNETS. 


II. 

Nor  will  I  charge  thee  with  the  floods  of  sin 
That  welter  round  the  tangled  lives  of  men 
With  poisonous  airs  from  Death's  wide 

stagnant  fen, 

Until  I  learn  where  Good  and  111  begin. 
And  yet,  poor  hapless   wight,   thou   art    to 

me — 
Since    the  world-hoary   myth   hath   made 

thee  so — 

The  symbol  of  innumerable  woe 
And  deep  immeasurable  misery  ! 
I  hate  old  Envy's  poisoned  fangs  that  kill 
Content,    and    Slander's   red    and    odious 

tongue, 

And  dark  Suspicion  writhing  swift  among 

Fair  names,  besliming  noble  hearts,  but  still, 

I  hate  thee  not.       Away,    unharmed    and 

free, 

And    may    my    serpent    thoughts    escape 
with  thee  ! 

138 


Jtye  Birtf?  of  a  (Jod, 


*T*HOU    mighty    Silence    in    the    roar    of 

worlds, 

Majestic,  moveless  in  the  drift  of  Time, 
Fixed  End  and  Altitude  of  things,  with  Thee 
The  soul  is  calm.     To  Thee,  with  choice  sub 
lime, 

Through  deathless  conquest  of  appearances, 
And  gentle  march  athwart  chaotic  Night 
And  leaden  headlong-hurling  Institutes, 
Through  frozen  palaces  of  formal  ice, 
Mid    world-old     constitutions,    codes     and 

creeds, — 

The  serpent-slough  of  ancient  yesterdays, — 
She  mounts,  star-eyed  for  primal  Truth  and 

Light, 

Star-pinioned  strong  for  heaven-scaling  flight 
Beyond  the  dark  obscure,  star -shod  to  climb 


THE    BIRTH    OF    A    GOD. 


From  world  abysses  o'er  the  crags  of  Time  ! 
Impelled  by  kinship  with  the  primal  Good, 
She  sweeps  magnetic  from  her  nether  orb, 
Far-mounting  unto  Thee,  at  one  with   Thee, 
In  Thy  repose,  cloud-girdled!  Having  touched 
The  midmost  Sun  of  the  celestial  fires, 
As    once    Prometheus,  she    at  length   shall 

stand 

Embodied  Fire, —  a  portent  to  the  Age, — 
A  wild  rock  Pharos  lit  by  Titan  hands, 
Wide  flashing  through  the  void  Immensities 
Of  Space    and  Time,   from  its    firm-centred 

rest, — 

Foreboding  swift  convulsion  and  wide  wreck 
And  palingenesis  to  nobler  life  ! 
Thus,  one  by  one,  on  missions  of  uplift, 
Great  Souls  are  born,  and,   with   compulsion 

strong, 

Bring  Order  out  of  Chaos,  and  behold  ! 
The  Chaos  owns  a  Hero  and  a  God  ! 
140 


"T  KNOW  not  if  there  be, 

Following  invisibly, 
Angels  protecting  me, 

Nor  would  I  care, 
Though  cohorts  of  celestial  spies 

With  Argus  eyes 
Should  wheel  about  me  in  the  cool  sweet  air ! 

I  know  not  if  there  be, 

Ruling  almightily, 

A  Judge  approving  me, 

Nor  would  I  care, 
Though  from  his  cloud-engirdled  throne 

In  thunder  tone 
He  hurled  me  curses  through  the  vibrant  air  J 


141 


AGNOSTICISM. 


I  only  know  there  be 

Things  that  my  soul  should  flee 

To  live  exaltedly, 

And  these  I  dare, 
Though  God  and  his  hosts  celestial 

Desert  me  all, 
To  loathe  and  shun  like  pestilential  air ! 

I  only  know  there  be 
Voices  that  speak  to  me 
Out  of  Life's  mystery, 

And  these  I  dare 
To  hear,  though  heaven's  high  tribunal 

Proclaim  them  all 
The  lying  hiss  of  demons  in  God's  pure  air 


142 


16 


I. 
'T~"HAT  the  dead  are  dead  and  the  living 

are  here 

Is  the  obvious  stern  reality, 
However  we  dream  of  fair  realms  beyond 
And  chatter  of  immortality  ! 

1 1. 

What  is  the  prophet's  dream  to  me  ? 

What  is  the  stroke  of  the  psalmist's  lyre  ? 
When  the  bosom  of  love  has  ceased  to  heave 

And  the  broken  eyes  have  lost  their  fire  ? 

I'll. 

The  parting  is  over, — the  keenest  pang, — 
We  meet  no  more   till  the  close  of   day, 

And  then  if  we're  left  to  moulder  alone, 

What  more  can  be  suffered  ?     'Tis  over 
for  aye  ! 


THOUGHTS. 


IV. 

The  sense  of  living  is  stronger  than  thought, 
The  sense  of  loss  is  stronger  than  dreams, 

And  the  visions  that  float  through  a  mist  of 

tears 
Are  cold  and  chill  as  the  Stygian  stream's. 

v. 
Dearer  to  me  is  the  simple  creed 

That  the  all  of  living  is  to  be  just, 
Whether  the  end  be  gates  of  pearl 

Or  only  a  handful  of  worthless  dust. 

VI. 

Despite  the  best  words  ever  sung, 

The  grave  has  a  smell  of  dust  and  mould, 

And  the  heart  that  is  beating  fast  and  warm 
Shrinks  from  the  everlasting:  cold. 


144 


/Tty  pious  Qo/r\forters. 


TOU  wish  I  could  think  like  you  ?  It  would 
comfort  me  in  my  grief 
To  rest  in  the  arms  of  Faith,  and  learn  God's 

sweet  relief  ? 
For  Death  is  a  door,   you    say,  and    not   an 

impassable  wall, 
And  the  ears  of  Faith  can  hear,  from  beyond, 

the  immortals'  call  ? 
Dear  soul,  you  may  mean    it    well  !     It    will 

do,  perchance,  for  you, 
But  I'd  scream  and  rend  my  hair,  if  I  thought 

your  dream  were  true  ! 
A  door  ?     Aye,  an  open  door,    and    I    know 

not  what  beyond, 
But  my  head  is  all  too  clear,  and  my  heart  is 

all  too  fond, 
To  divide  that  realm,  like  you,  into  fields    of 

glory  and  blight, 
Where  the  saved  look  down  on  the  lost,  with 

a  burst  of  wild  delight. 

MS 


MY    PIOUS    COMFORTERS. 


Could  I  look  on  that  dear  dead   face    turned 

tenderly  to  me 
With  the  lips  just  parting  the  whiskers,  those 

lips  that  seemed  to  be 
Made  for  all  kindness  and  kissing,  and  think 

about  Death,  like  you  ? 
For  I  know  how  he  lived  and  toiled,  and  what 

he  had  striven  to  do. 
He  wasn't  quite    sure,   himself,   that   priest 

and  bishop  knew 
Each  nook  and    corner    of    heaven   and    the 

narrow  way  thereto. 
You'd    say,    he  blasphemed    at    times,    and 

laughed  at  holy  things, — 
At  the  pious  fudge  of  the  world,  in  its  infant's 

leading-strings, — 
And  his  brain  was  clear  and  strong,  and  his 

heart  was  brave  and  warm, 
And  he  basked  in  the  sun  of  life,  and  braved 

its  wildest  storm, 
For  he  saw  that  the  best    of  living  is  living 

here  and  now, 
Whether  a  fillet  of  gold,    or  a    thorn-crown, 

pressed  the  brow. 
146 


MY    PIOUS    COMFORTERS. 


If  I  thought  like  you,  I  would  know,  that  his 

soul  this  very  night 
Had    entered  that — Father,   sweet   Father ! 

I  kneel  in  the  failing  light, 
By  thy  side,  poor    broken    Eyes,  and    swear 

that  wherever  thou  art, 
I  will  follow  thee,  where    thou  art,  and    bear 

of  thy  fate  my  part, 
And  love  thee,  and    serve    thee,    and    shield 

thee,  a  dutiful  daughter  and  true, 
To  the  last  and  forever   and   ever  ! — Is    that 

any  comfort  to  you 
To  drive  a  daughter  to  madness  ?     The  faith 

of  my  father  is  best, 
For  heaven  were  turned  into    hell,    for    me, 

without  all  the  rest 
Of  the  loved  ones    that    founded   the    home 

and  nourished  its  altar  fires 
With  quenchless  love  and  trust  and  devotion 

that  never  tires. 
Agnostic  ?     And  do  I  not  dread  the  future  ? 

So  unprepared  ? 
Shall  I  dread  the  sweet  sleep  of  that  Sleeper? 

The  sleep  my  mother  has  shared  ? 
147 


MY    PIOUS    COMFORTERS. 


For  she    rests    under     the    ferns,    and   the 

myrtle  creeps  through  the  grass 
As  sweetly  to-day  as  if  priests  had    hallowed 

it  with  their  mass. 
Two  unbaptized  babes    are    sleeping    beside 

her  there, 
All  doomed,  if  I  thought  like  you,  beyond  a 

hope  or  a  prayer. 
If  I  dreamed  for  a  moment  to-day  that  I  were 

going  to  heaven, — 
Your  heaven, —  and  all  my  faults  and  failings 

would  be  forgiven, 
And  I  knew  that  far  away  in  those  dungeons 

of  despair 
My  father  and  mother  were  tortured,  beyond 

my  love  and  care, 
I  would  do  some  horrible  deed,    some  daring 

and  dreadful  thing, 
And  slay  myself,  and   fly    to   them   both   on 

swiftest  wing, 
And  descend    to   abysmal   gloom,    with    the 

vision  of  heaven  above, 
And  glory  in  winning  hell,  for    the   sake    of 

the  ones  I  love  ! 

148 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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THS  LIBRARY 
OF 

LG3  ANGELES 


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5H68   1   or   of   liberty. 


JUN  9      1953 


PS 

3537 
S368  1 


